Page 51 of The Subtle Craft of Courting Kate

Richard and Rebecca had gone off visiting again, but they had had a steward deliver a fresh bottle of champagne, and with a few glasses downed furtively whenever there was a moment where no eyes rested upon her, Kate had managed to bury the annoyance of so many interruptions beneath a pleasantly fuzzy state of tipsiness.

Miss Applegate and her brother had indeed put in an appearance, though Elliot had swiftly taken Lord Shaw to one side under the pretext of having some sort of private conversation which ladies were not meant to overhear, and which had left Kate unbearably nervous.

And also in the company of Miss Applegate. She was even lovelier up close, every chestnut curl perfectly in place. The pins in her hair were fashioned from diamonds after all, and they glittered like stars set within the dark gleaming locks.

“It is lovely to see you again, Miss Littlefield,” Miss Applegate asked, her voice soft and low, as she lifted her glass to her lips and took a sip of champagne, every movement precise and elegant. A hesitant smile flashed across her lips, there and gone again in an instant. “I have got that right, haven’t I—it is Miss Katherine Littlefield? I confess, I have got a terrible memory for names.”

If a similar comment had been made by a few of the other ladies whom she had met, Kate might have assumed it had been a subtle put-down meant to inform her of her place. To convey to her that she was nobody important, certainly no one whose name was worth remembering. But from Miss Applegate, she had only the sense that it was…honest.

Because the woman was so bloody nice. And because she was so damned nice, one couldn’t help but to like her. Even when one would dearly have liked not to do so.

“It is,” she said. “But I prefer Kate. The only person who calls me Katherine is my mother, and that only when she is extremely displeased with me.”

Miss Applegate gave a lovely tinkling trill of a laugh. “Kate, then,” she said, with that delightful smile which revealed such even white teeth. “It suits you. Please, you must call me Amelia.” She lifted her glass, canting it in the direction of her brother and Elliot there in the far corner of the box. “What do you suppose they’re discussing?”

“Oh, I—I couldn’t possibly hazard a guess,” Kate said. But it did look rather serious. Elliot’s brows were drawn, his cheeks hollowed. Not quite angry, if she had to guess, at least not yet. But irritated at the very least. Her stomach pitched with unease. She lifted one hand to brush that dangling curl away from her eyes, but her wrist swung her reticule in the doing of it, and it smacked against Miss Applegate’s shoulder, nearly causing the poor woman to drop the glass in her hand. Flustered and embarrassed, Kate babbled, “Oh, I’m so dreadfully sorry—”

“No harm done,” Miss Applegate said, with a light laugh. “I was only a little surprised. It’s quite heavy for a reticule. Is that where you keep your notebook?”

Kate’s mouth dropped open. “How—”

“I saw you last week,” Miss Applegate said, with a teasing little wrinkle of her nose, “scribbling away in it at—I believe it was the Mercers’ dinner party? After dinner, in the drawing room. I was dying of curiosity, of course. I would have asked about it, but you looked so very dedicated to the task that I was loath to interrupt you.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Have you got a secret career as a novelist or a columnist? I swear upon my life, I can keep a secret.”

“No! No; nothing—nothing like that,” Kate said. “They’re just…my personal notes.”

“Notes?” The tiniest crease of confusion settled between the delicate arch of Miss Applegate’s brows. And then, as she followed Kate’s gaze across the box to where Elliot and Lord Shaw stood, still engaged in animated—if hushed—conversation, she said, “Ah. I see.”

She really didn’t. She couldn’t. Could she?

“I don’t mind telling you,” Miss Applegate said, “because it oughtn’t to be a secret from an interested party, but the gossip going about is that Lord Elliot has decided to marry and he has enlisted your help in finding a wife. Is there in fact some truth in that?”

“Well—that is to say—” Kate shifted her shoulders uncomfortably. “It is only that we have known one another for such a very long time, and—and he is my dearest friend.”

“I only ask,” Miss Applegate said, “because my brother is being so very pushy about it. He’d quite like to have a duke in the family, even if it’s only through a younger brother. Albert is the best of brothers, and he truly means well, but I do wish he wouldn’t parade me about like a prize sow on market day.”

A tiny flutter of laughter escaped through the cage of Kate’s fingers before she could smother it. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “It isn’t funny, truly. But I swear to you I have had the same thought in passing.” And so had Elliot, in point of fact, having compared himself to a slab of meat hung within a butcher’s window. Though Kate hadn’t been one of the marriageable young women on display, still it had seemed rather cold and calculating a thing to endure. The marriage mart, upon which men selected young women of breeding and quality to take to wife with little difference—at least, from what Kate had been able to discern—from how they might select a horse.

“Yes, well, one day I hope I too shall be able to laugh about it,” Miss Applegate sighed. “Though, between the combined efforts of my mother and brother, I suppose I shall not be on the marriage mart much longer.”

“If you will be good enough not to take offense to an unsolicited opinion,” Kate ventured, “I’d say it matters much more what you have got to say of it.”

Miss Applegate’s lovely green eyes brightened with mischief. “Are you fishing, Kate?” she teased with a delighted little smile. And then her eyes widened, her lips parting on a sudden, indrawn breath, as if a thought had just occurred. “Have I got a page there in your notebook?”

Taken aback, Kate could only mumble, “Oh—well—you see—”

“I have, haven’t I? Oh, you must let me see it.” Miss Applegate reached out to touch Kate’s arm in appeal. “Please? Just one tiny little peek, and I promise I shall never tell anyone, not one single soul.”

“I have got rather a lot of notes,” Kate said uneasily. “About rather a lot of ladies.”

“I shall only look at mine,” Miss Applegate declared, laying one hand over her heart as if to swear upon it. “Oh, please.”

The woman was tenacious, like a dog with a bone. Would a firm refusal put even a dent in that stubborn insistence? Even as she vacillated, Kate had to admit that there was every chance they might end up spending a good deal of time in each other’s company, if Elliot did happen to marry the woman. Perhaps it was best simply to let her have a look, in the interests of fostering a friendly acquaintance. Kate pried at the strings of her reticule, trying to recall exactly what she had written. Surely nothing offensive—she had, after all, found herself annoyed most of all by the simple fact that the woman was simply too bloody likeable. That as much as she had wanted to find a flaw worthy of excoriating opinion, she had failed to latch on to a single one worthy of note.

Until now. She flipped through pages, scanning the names scrawled in pencil upon them until at last she came to the pages emblazoned with Miss Applegate’s name. “I think it only fair to warn you,” she said as she handed the notebook over, “I will be adding doggedly persistent the moment you return it to me.”

Miss Applegate gave another delighted trill of laughter that sounded so musical, light and airy. “I won’t even complain of it,” she said. “Now let’s see here—oh! Fine eyes, I see you’ve put down. I thank you; I do think they’re my best feature overall.”

Her best feature might be debatable, but there was no denying that her eyes were particularly lovely. Large and green and almond-shaped with just the slightest catlike tilt to the corners, and thickly-fringed with long, dark lashes.