Page 7 of The Subtle Craft of Courting Kate

Was it only this Season in which he had been inundated with ardent admirers, or had they always been there in the periphery of his London life, waiting for the opportunity to present itself before them?

“What’s wrong?” Elliot asked, his brows drawing into a frown. “Have you got an affliction of wind?”

Kate startled, ruffling up like a wet hen. “What? No, I haven’t got wind! What manner of question is that?”

“The manner of question it is prudent to ask when one considers that the last time I glimpsed that particular expression upon someone’s face, it was shortly before Richard and Rebecca’s infant son soiled his nappy right in my arms. Suffice it to say, I learned a valuable lesson from that particular ordeal, and I’d appreciate a bit of a warning before—”

Kate could feel her face heating to a vibrant red. “I don’t have wind!”

“Well, it’s a long ride yet to London, so if you do—”

“I tell you, I won’t!” Her fingers twitched in her lap, unconsciously seeking something to lob at his head. She hadn’t been moved to such an action in years and years, and Elliot might well be the only man in the world capable of moving her to such heights of indignation. Where was her reticule? Surely something in it would be substantial enough to serve the purpose of knocking that maddening smirk straight off of his face—oh.

He was jesting. Teasing her, just the same as he’d always done. And as that smirk gave way to a wheeze of a laugh, which he tried—and failed—to smother beneath the tip of his fingers, Kate spluttered, “Oh, you wretched, misbegotten son of a—”

“Children!” Mama shrilled, her voice an odd blend of interest and horror. “That is quite enough out of both of you. I cannot believe such indecorous talk of bodily functions would be welcome anywhere in London!”

Elliot linked his hands in his lap. “Well—”

Mama narrowed her eyes behind the lenses of her spectacles, pinning him with a stern stare. “You are not to escort my daughter anywhere such talk would be welcome. Is that perfectly clear?”

Elliot’s shoulders slouched, and for half a moment, he looked nothing so much like the boy he’d once been, pouting to have been so thoroughly disabused of such a notion in no uncertain terms. “Yes, ma’am,” he grumbled in the selfsame inflection he had since childhood whenever his mischief had earned him a rebuke, though the faintest trace of amusement still rippled at the edges of his voice.

Kate slid her foot across the carriage floor and nudged his boot with the toe of her shoe. “Elliot, be serious,” she chided.

“Aw, Katie,” he said, as he braced his arm against the wall of the carriage and let a heartfelt sigh drift from his lungs, that hangdog expression now firmly fixed upon her. “I must take my levity where I can find it, you know. And so ought you.”

“Me?” Kate blinked, startled.

A flicker of that mischief etched itself into his cheek along with a flash of dimple. “You’ll never find such entertainment as there is to be had in London,” he said. “Sheep, I imagine, aren’t terribly scintillating conversationalists.”

“No,” Kate allowed, with a prim sniff. “Not particularly.” Though she had found it at least a bit amusing when that little lamb had pranced gaily across Elliot’s midsection. “However, neither are they known for their predilection for gossip or rumor-mongering.”

“Damn shame—beg pardon, Mrs. Littlefield. Love a good rumor; the more unlikely the better. And the gossip! We’ll have to find you some good scandal rags when we arrived in London. You don’t know what you’ve been missing.” A cheeky wink followed. “But you’ll find out. I’ll make certain of it.”

Oh, Lord. Kate rolled her eyes to the heavens and cast up a silent and undoubtedly futile prayer for patience. It was too soon yet to regret this scheme—but a part of her was certain she would. Eventually.

Chapter Four

Nightfall had descended upon London by the time they’d arrived. Elliot had hoped to make it to Devon’s townhouse before dinner, but they’d been forced to stop several times over the length of the journey owing to the fact that carriage travel had disagreed with Kate. Violently. Twice already, with the unmistakable potential of a third time in the offing.

Elliot had alighted from the carriage first, under the pretext making certain their rooms had been readied for them, but Kate had scrambled out shortly thereafter and stood even now with her sweaty forehead pressed to the cold side of the carriage as she drew in swift, deep breaths in an effort to force her roiling stomach into submission as her mother rubbed her back in tight, soothing circles.

Be serious, Elliot, he thought as he headed for the door of Devon’s townhouse. He’d heard that very phrase—or some variation of it—over and over again throughout his life entire. Not only from Kate, but from everyone in his life. And it was true, to an extent, that he’d lived a life of supreme joviality. He’d made an art of being jocular and flippant, of agreeableness and amiability.

Everyone liked him. He hadn’t an enemy in the world, and he’d rarely met the person whom he could not have called ‘friend’ within a few hours or so of meeting. But the only person he’d ever loved had never known it. Had spent more than a dozen years utterly oblivious to it.

Be serious, Elliot.

Kate had said that very thing—laughing, smiling, all good humor and fun—five years ago at Christmastide, when he’d pointed to the sprig of mistletoe hung above their heads and suggested a kiss. Well, he’d been serious, then, even if she had not seen it. He’d been serious for years and years, though she had never marked it as such. And he was damned well serious now.

The problem with being the consummate entertainer was that one was always assumed to be in jest. That even when it was most important, most serious indeed, it was impossible for anyone to see past the farcical face to the earnestness beneath. A clown was always a clown, whatever else he might’ve been besides. Probably it hadn’t helped that it had taken half a dozen ales at the tavern in the village only to work up the nerve to plead with Kate to accompany him to London—but then, it likely hadn’t hurt, either, given that Kate had seen him in similar circumstances and worse dozens of times before.

Elliot had always loved to make her laugh, and despite whatever exasperation he might have caused, she always had.

His unfortunate circumstances tumbling about in his head, Elliot stalked up the steps toward the front door of Devon’s London townhouse, his hand lifted to knock upon the black-lacquered door.

Hodges—Devon’s butler—yanked the door open before he could get in so much as a tap. “Lord Elliot,” he said, and his bushy brows rose toward his hairline as he beheld the commotion outside. “What the devil?”