Page 46 of The Subtle Craft of Courting Kate

“Elliot,” she whispered against his lips, and his heart raced faster still. Yes. This—this was everything he had ever dreamed of.

Kate wriggled, releasing the hold of one arm to shift her position upon the bench and…her elbow struck the keys of the pianoforte, producing a noisy, discordant jumble of notes that raised the hair at the nape of his neck. With a startled gasp, she yanked herself away at last.

Spell broken. Popped like a bubble in an instant. His heart ached for the loss of it as she drew her hands away from his chest, settled them once more in her lap. But the echoes of that magnificent kiss lingered on in the faint swelling of her lips, which she pursed, as if it might relieve the tenderness that remained.

“Well,” Kate squeaked, as she reached out with trembling fingers to snatch her glove off of the pianoforte, and struggled to stuff her fingers back into it. “That was certainly—certainly—”

Thrilling? Awe-inspiring? Mind-shattering? Educational? He hadn’t any more time to wonder further, and she hadn’t any more time to speak; from outside the drawing room came the pronounced, deliberate click of Rebecca’s heels upon the floor. Offered at exceptional volume, he was certain, so that they knew they would soon be interrupted.

A moment later Rebecca swanned in, her gaze sweeping the room. Pleasure swept over her face to find them sitting, side by side, at the pianoforte. “You see?” Rebecca said with a vague little gesture of her fingers to the pianoforte as she crossed the room to drop once more onto the couch she’d vacated half an hour before. “I told you he’d be pleased as punch to teach you.”

At this distance, probably she could not see the wild flush that had spread across Kate’s cheeks. Rebecca was, of course, correct. He had been pleased as punch to teach her.

But he wondered, now, what she had learned.

Chapter Seventeen

Kate wrapped her hand around her reticule, seizing the little notebook within in an iron grip for no other reason than to stop herself from absent-mindedly touching her lips yet again. They tingled still, nearly an hour later. As if she could still feel the pressure of Elliot’s lips upon them, still feel the warmth, the softness. The skin at the nape of her neck still sizzled at the remembered brush of his fingers. Her own fingertips still tickled at the sensation of his wool coat beneath them. But her lips bore the brunt of it, and she hadn’t quite been able to keep herself from touching them.

It was the wine, of course, or the port. Or some unholy combination of the two, perhaps. The Crewes’ serving staff had done an able job of discreetly refilling glasses throughout dinner. So discreet a job that she could not say, exactly, how much wine she had consumed.

And it had to be the wine, or else—or else—

Or else she was in very real trouble. Heading inexorably toward an excruciating heartache.

“Kate, darling,” Mama said, her brows drawing in concern. “Are you well? Shall I have the coachman stop?”

“I’m fine, Mama,” Kate managed to eke out through the tightness of her throat with a weak smile, hoping that the shadows clinging to the interior of the carriage would disguise just how poor an excuse for one it truly was. “A little too much wine, I think. But nothing to stop the carriage over.” After more than a fortnight in London, the carriage sickness had mostly abated.

“You do look a bit peaky,” Mama said, adjusting her spectacles to peer through the darkness. “Ah, well. You might be a bit worse off in the morning for it, but it is a valuable lesson to learn. And it was only a private dinner among friends, so there is no harm done by it.”

Friends. Yes. The spine of the notebook bit into Kate’s palm like a taunt. Elliot had always been her friend, but one of the women whose names she had dutifully inscribed within the notebook he’d given her would be his wife.

Soon enough, one of them would know what it was like to feel his arms around her. To feel the press of his lips, the touch of his tongue. Perhaps he would wrap that woman’s hair about his fingers just as he had done with Kate’s. Stroke the nape of her neck…and elsewhere.

Kate pressed her lips into a grim line to smother the strange little sound that crawled up her throat before it could emerge. Swallowed hard to force it back down to—wherever it had originated. “We’re home,” she said as the carriage began to slow, and not a moment too soon. The carriage was swiftly becoming too tight, too close. And if she could not recover herself swiftly, Mama would have more questions still. Best to be elsewhere before Mama could give voice to them, somewhere she might collect herself and tuck away the inconvenient thoughts whizzing about her head.

Mama smothered a yawn in her hand. “Thank goodness,” she said as the footman flung open the door and offered a hand to help her out. “I don’t mind telling you, dear,” she said as she stepped out of the carriage, “I nodded off there for a while in my chair in the library. These late nights are playing havoc with me. I much prefer our country hours.”

So did Kate, but she supposed she was growing somewhat accustomed to the late nights. Could she grow accustomed, in the same fashion as she had with the carriages and the London hours, to seeing Elliot with a wife on his arm? A woman she had selected for him? She pondered these questions with an increasing sense of disquiet as they climbed the steps of the townhouse.

“Welcome,” Hodges said, with a polite bow as he ushered them into the foyer. “Bit of a chill in the air tonight despite the season. Can I interest you in tea?”

“None for me, thank you,” Mama said. “At this hour, all that interests me is my bed. But perhaps…Katie, dear.” Mama turned to smooth one hand over Kate’s cheek in a fond caress. “A bracing cup of tea might be just the thing for you, don’t you think?”

Yes. A hot cup of tea, and a comfortable chair. Perhaps even the escape of a new book to nudge her mind away from the thoughts that had plagued her just lately. “Yes; that sounds lovely,” she said. “Might I take tea in the library this evening, Hodges?”

“Of course, Miss Littlefield,” Hodges said as he closed the door behind them. “It’ll be only the work of a few minutes.”

“Thank you, Hodges,” Kate said, as she followed after Mama toward the stairs and began to ascend. “First, I have got to get out of this gown. No, no”—she gave a little wave, staying Hodges’ offer before he had even begun to speak—“I can manage well enough on my own. No need to wake anyone else to assist me.”

A little crinkle of amusement settled into the fine lines wreathing Hodges’ eyes. “Very well, Miss Littlefield. Your tea will await your return,” he said as he turned to go.

Kate trudged up the stairs, feeling the weight of the evening upon her shoulders grow heavier with each step. Was it the tightness of her bodice and the stays beneath which constricted her breathing, or was it the pounding of her heart that caused such discomfort? Perhaps she’d know once she’d changed.

“Good night, darling,” Mama said breezily as they reached the landing where they would part ways. She placed a gentle kiss upon Kate’s cheek and murmured, “Don’t stay up too late, now.”

“I won’t, Mama.” Probably, between shedding herself of a less-than-comfortable gown and the soothing properties of tea, she’d be near to nodding off within minutes. If she could manage to shed her mind just as easily of the knotted tangle of thoughts that had strung itself haphazardly across it, that was to say.