Page 57 of Mail-Order Viscountess

Thank you. The prayer rose from a little-used part of him. I don’t deserve her, but thank you for this woman.

His bed was positioned against the wall—had been since he was a boy, when he’d liked having something solid on one side so he didn’t roll off. Kate had scooted all the way over to that wall, leaving as much space between her and his side as the double mattress allowed.

He should say something charming. Something to ease the tension that hung thick as woodsmoke in the air.

In his mind, he’d imagined making some kind of show of preparing for bed—removing his cravat with exaggerated flourish, perhaps, or commenting on the quality of Mrs. Wang’s quilting. Something to prove he was perfectly comfortable, perfectly at ease, perfectly unbothered by the presence of a beautiful woman in his bed.

But looking at Kate now—at the way her fingers clenched the edge of the quilt, at the careful blankness of her expression that didn’t quite hide the wariness beneath—he couldn’t bring himself to perform.

She looked more vulnerable than he’d ever seen Kate McKinney—Kate Balfour—look.

So he simply moved to the other side of the bed. Removed his boots. Shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the chair. Kept his shirt and trousers on, though he normally changed into a nightshirt.

“Do you want me to turn out the lamp?” he asked quietly.

“Please.”

He blew out the flame. Darkness swallowed the room, broken only by thin moonlight seeping through the window curtains. The bed ropes creaked as he lowered himself onto the tick, staying carefully on his side, leaving space between them.

The quilts smelled a little like lavender. Kate’s doing, perhaps, or Mrs. Wang’s thoughtfulness.

Silence settled over them like snow.

He stared at the far wall he couldn’t see. Behind him, Kate’s breathing barely sounded—far too controlled to be natural.

He should let her rest. Should keep his mouth shut and his eyes closed and pray that exhaustion eventually claimed them both.

Instead, he said, “You know, you’re Lady Balfour now.”

A pause.

“What?”

“Lady Balfour.” He turned his head toward her, though he could barely make out her shape in the darkness. “That’s your title. Since we’re married.”

More silence. When she spoke again, her voice held a note of confusion. “I...hadn’t considered that.”

“It’s true.” He couldn’t quite keep the smile from his voice. “You’re a viscountess now. Married into the English peerage.”

The blanket rustled as she shifted. “That feels...strange.”

“Welcome to the madness.” He kept the words light, no matter how much truth lay beneath them. The absurdity of titles and bloodlines had chafed at him for years. “Though I have to say, Lady Katherine Balfour has a rather nice ring to it.”

“Kate.” She spoke almost automatically. “Just Kate.”

“Kate.” He let her name settle on his tongue, simple and strong. Like the woman herself. “Just Kate. Viscountess of these Montana mountains.”

A sound escaped her—something that might have been a laugh, quickly suppressed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve been told.”

The darkness didn’t weigh as much now. Some of the tension had eased from the air between them, replaced by a sense of companionship.

“Go to sleep, Thomas.” Kate’s voice had softened.

“Yes, my lady.”

This time, the sound she made was definitely a laugh.