Page 38 of The Subtle Craft of Courting Kate

“We ought to ask him to play,” Rebecca said decisively, startling Kate from the strange bent of her thoughts. “When they return, that is to say. He really is very talented.”

“Who’s talented?” Elliot poked his head in through the door, scraping back his untidy hair with the rake of his fingers. Only half an hour ago during dinner it had been perfectly combed, gold locks elegantly arranged—but now it looked nearly slovenly, with deep furrows carved through the once-immaculate style, as if he’d been tugging at it with the restive agitation he often exhibited when distressed or anxious. What, exactly, had they been discussing over their port?

Rebecca would know, Kate thought. Later this evening, at least. Perhaps she’d ask on another occasion.

“You are,” Rebecca said as she shoved herself upright once more. “Kate didn’t know you could play the pianoforte. I told her you would play for us.”

The corner of Elliot’s mouth hitched up in amusement. “Did you? Rather impolite to go around making promises on my behalf.”

Richard, who had just arrived himself, clapped Elliot on the shoulder with a force that made him pitch forward just a little. “Oh, come,” he said, in a chiding tone. “You love to show off, and a gentleman never disappoints a lady. You play; I’ll pour the last of the port.” He lifted the bottle, still half-full. “No sense in letting a perfectly good bottle go to waste.”

“Later, perhaps,” Elliot said. “Mrs. Littlefield—”

“Was just about to ask,” Mama interjected, as she smoothed at her skirts and rose from the bench set before the pianoforte, ostensibly to free it for Elliot’s use, “if I might make use of the library. If there is one, that is.”

“Oh, there is,” Richard said. “And Rebecca keeps it stocked to the gills with the romantic novels she favors.”

“Oh, stop.” Rebecca groused as she reached for the glass of port that her husband offered to her. “He reads them, too,” she confided to Kate with a wink.

Richard coughed into his fist, his cheeks flushing with mortification. “And Elliot,” he added in a rough, desperate sort of voice—which Kate took to mean that if he were going to be dragged down into humiliation by his wife, he did not intend to suffer it alone. “He lives for the drama of them.”

Utterly unaffected and absent even the slightest hint of embarrassment, Elliot lifted his brows. “What is so wrong with that? I enjoy reading. And I’d rather something pleasant and hopeful than some plodding, overly moralistic tome.” His gaze flitted to Kate. “One always knows how a romance is going end, and there is something comforting in that, don’t you think?”

Her hands linking in her lap, Kate spluttered, “Why ask me?”

Elliot’s lips twitched with the advent of mirth. “It would have been impossible not to make note of the sort of books you’ve borrowed over the years,” he said. “Twice a week at least Devon’s housekeeper complained of the task of returning them to their shelves.”

Blushing furiously, Kate stammered, “That—that is—”

“Oooh, caught out,” Rebecca teased, softening the accusation with a kind smile as she leaned forward to clasp Kate’s hand in hers. “Don’t worry; I have got all the latest, and I shall be happy to lend them to you.”

“I’ll make note of the ones Devon hasn’t got at his townhouse,” Elliot said obligingly. “Mrs. Littlefield, I would be happy to convey you to the library, if you wish.”

“Thank you,” Mama said. “That would be lovely.” She offered a little smile to Kate as she took the arm Elliot offered to her.

Kate protested, “Oh, Mama, you don’t have to go—”

“Of course I don’t have to,” Mama said with a light laugh. “But I have got no taste for port, and you don’t need your mother hanging on your every word every moment of the day. I’m certain you’ll have just as much fun without me. Lord Elliot?”

“Yes, ma’am. The library is just upstairs,” he said as he led her from the room.

Rebecca tucked her head against her husband’s shoulder as Richard took the seat beside her upon the couch. “Of course, now that Elliot has absented himself, we must gossip about him.” With the point of one finger, she jabbed Richard in the side. “What were you discussing that kept you so long?”

Richard offered a one-shouldered shrug. “Women, mostly,” he said. “Though what kept us was not conversation so much as Elliot’s dogged determination to finish off the last of the raspberry trifle. I think he coaxed our cook out of another three servings.”

As Rebecca chortled over Elliot’s legendary sweet tooth, Kate found her shoulders slumping with an odd dispiritedness. Women. Of course, they had been discussing women. Had it been women in general—or Miss Applegate in particular?

The prospect made her want to throttle someone. Her fingers curled instinctively into claws, and to camouflage the hateful motion she snatched up her wine glass once more and took a deep drink. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said, cringing her to hear the faintly surly inflection woven through her voice, “I had always imagined that Elliot must a bit of a rake.”

For a moment there was only a stunned silence. And then, at last, a burble of laughter split the air, and Rebecca slapped her fingers over her mouth to quell it. “A rake?” she echoed, her voice warbling across the syllables, rife with amusement. “Elliot?”

Richard chuckled, a crooked grin sliding over his face. “That’s a first,” he said as he shook his head, as if it were the most amusing thing he’d heard in years. “A rake,” he uttered in patent disbelief. “Whatever would lead you to believe such a thing?”

“Well—well—” Kate floundered for an answer, feeling heat creeping into her cheeks once more. “He’s often told me tales of the endless amusements to be found in London. Gaming hells, horse racing, drinking, gambling.” All of which she knew well enough that he had availed himself of in the past, and from his own mouth, no less.

Richard coughed to disguise a laugh, earning himself a reproachful jab in the side from his wife. “And you assumed, naturally, that women were among those amusements.”

Why should she not have done? “Well—it’s not the sort of thing one speaks of with one’s friends, is it?”