Page 5

The kitchen smelled of wood smoke and porridge. The pot sat on the range, steam curling from under the lid.

He was at the table. Sitting. Eating. He had a bowl in front of him and a spoon in his hand and a plate of toast beside it and he did not look up when she came in.

Even the man looked different in daylight. Last night, in the dark, he’d been a shape. A voice. A presence she couldn’t read. In daylight he was flesh and detail: dark hair that needed cutting, a thick beard that made his age and most of his expression difficult to read. He might have been handsome beneath it, but the scar running from his left temple to his ear and the scowl he wore like a second skin discouraged her from looking long enough to find out. She stared at his arms instead. His shirtsleeves were pushed past his forearms. She watched the muscles move as he lifted the spoon.

She looked away. She looked back. She looked away again.

“You didn’t leave,” she said.

He didn’t look up.

“You will leave this morning.”

Dark eyes lifted from the bowl. They took in her morning dress, her loosely pinned hair, the tremor in her hands she couldn’t quite hide. Then they returned to the porridge.

“No,” he said. "Pass the marmalade."

Audrey blinked. The pot of preserves sat on the dresser behind her.

“I am Lady Audrey Kendal.”

He said nothing. He ate. The spoon scraped the bowl. The fire crackled in the range. Somewhere above them the house creaked.

She drew herself up to her full height, which was not particularly impressive. “This is my property. Silverton Abbey was bequeathed to me by my great-aunt, Lady Marian Orford.”

“Condolences on your loss.” He nodded towards the dresser. “The marmalade.”

She stared at him. In one and thirty years, no one had spoken to her with such brazen disregard. Servants bowed. Tradesmen doffed their caps. Even her father’s sheepdog had shown proper deference.

She picked up the raspberry marmalade, put it in her pocket, crossed to the range, and ladled porridge into the second bowl. She sat down across from him because she was not about to be intimidated into eating at the dresser.

“What do you do here?” she asked.

“Gardener.”

“I am afraid I cannot afford to keep you.”

A grunt.

“I shall manage this estate.”

That earned her a glance. Brief. The kind of glance one gave a child proving herself a half-wit.

“I am perfectly capable,” she said.

He buttered his toast.

“I have studied agricultural principles.”

“Books,” he said.

One word. It contained entire volumes of mockery.

“Knowledge is power, Mr...” She stopped. “What is your name?”

He scraped the last of the butter onto his toast.

“Kit.”