Page 44 of Mail-Order Viscountess

Clara stirred but didn’t wake. Good.

Kate needed time to think before her sister started in again about marriage and Thomas Balfour and how staying here could solve everything.

As if marriage fixed anything. As if binding herself to a man she barely knew—a man planning to leave for California—would do anything but trap her in a different kind of cage.

She pulled a dress from the trunk. None of their clothing was clean after the journey, but the one she’d worn during the storm had tears and spots she’d need to spend time repairing. This emerald taffeta bore plenty of wrinkles, but it would have to do. She dressed quickly, her fingers fumbling with buttons and laces she could normally fasten in her sleep. Her hands weren’t quite steady this morning.

The mirror above the washstand showed a woman she barely recognized. Hair disheveled from sleep and shadows beneath her eyes that spoke of too little rest and too much worry. The fading remnants of dirt she must have missed last night still smudged along her jawline.

She scrubbed at her face and neck, the cold cloth bringing some clarity even as it raised gooseflesh along her arms. Then she worked at her hair, pulling it back into something resembling order. The chignon she managed looked severe, but at least it was neat. Controlled.

She needed control right now. Needed something she could manage when everything else kept slipping through her fingers like water.

She paused at the door to glance back at Clara’s sleeping form. Part of her wanted to wake her sister, to have a familiar presence at her side when she faced whatever waited downstairs. But Clara needed rest more than Kate needed comfort.

The hallway was quiet, and as she descended the stairs, she couldn’t quite gauge the time. Not early morning, for daylight streamed in through the windows. But not mid-morning yet. Maybe the family had already begun their daily business, whatever that was. What did a duke’s sons raised as ranchers do all day? Ranching work?

The great room below looked different in daylight—larger somehow, the details she’d missed in last night’s exhaustion now visible. Books lined the shelves near the massive fireplace. A painting hung above the mantel, mountains rendered in oils that caught the morning light. Everything spoke of permanence, of roots sunk deep into this wild place.

She’d made it halfway across the room when Thomas emerged from what must be the dining room.

He stopped short when he saw her. His copper-brown hair was damp, as though he’d recently washed. The bruise on his cheek had faded a little, shifting into a greenish-brown color.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other across the expanse of polished floor. The silence stretched between them, weighted with everything they’d shared in the cave and everything left unsaid since.

He cleared his throat. “Hungry? There’s food on the stove. We’ve each been eating as we wanted, but I can prepare you a plate.”

“I’m not—” She pressed a hand to her middle. Her nerves had knotted so tight the thought of food made her queasy. “Tea would be good. Or coffee, if there is any.”

“Both.” He gestured the way he’d entered. “Come on.”

She followed him through the dining room, past a long table surrounded by chairs, into a kitchen that smelled of bacon grease and fresh bread. A large cast-iron stove dominated one wall. Dishes sat drying beside a deep basin, evidence of the morning meal she’d missed.

Thomas moved to the stove with an easy familiarity that suggested he’d done this a thousand times. “Mrs. Wang keeps a pot going most of the day.” He lifted a kettle, testing its weight. “Still warm. Tea’s in the canister if you want it later.”

“Thank you.”

He poured a cup and handed it to her, their fingers brushing in the exchange. The contact lasted only a second, but it was enough to send heat crawling up her neck.

She took a step back and cradled the cup between her palms. The warmth seeped through the ceramic, anchoring her to something solid and real.

Thomas leaned against the counter, his own cup in hand, and watched her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. Not wariness. Curiosity maybe?

She met his gaze squarely. This usually made a person either back away or say what they meant.

The corners of Thomas’s mouth twitched. “I was hoping to catch you this morning.”

Her pulse kicked against her ribs. “Oh?”

“There’s something we need to discuss.” He glanced toward the dining room, then back at her. “Privately, if you’re willing.”

The formality in his tone made her stomach clench. This was it, then. The conversation Clara had predicted. The one she’d been dreading since Hartwell rode away yesterday morning.

She could refuse. Could insist on having Clara present, or Mrs. Wang, or anyone else who might serve as a distraction.

But running from this conversation wouldn’t change what needed to be said. And Kate McKinney had never been a coward, even when cowardice might have served her better.

“All right.” She kept her voice steady despite the way her heart hammered. “Where?”