“Well”—Anna turned from the window—“we shall simply have to wait and see what we have when we arrive. Caro, you know her the best of all of us, do you not?”
“Most likely.” She rubbed her hand over her stomach. “We grew up on neighboring estates and kept in contact after I left for Venice. The two things she always looked forward to were the Season and a love match.”
For at least the hundredth time in a week, Phoebe shook her head. “I cannot believe her grandmother did this.”
Caro raised a brow. “I can. According to my godmother, Horatia, the Dowager Duchess of Bridgewater has arranged all her children’s and most of her grandchildren’s marriages. Albeit she has been extremely cunning about doing so, and many times the couple wasn’t even aware they had been matched.”
“In that case,” Anna said, “I’m surprised at how ill they handled Mary and Featherton.”
“I’m sure it is due to the cousin.” Caro’s brows furrowed. “I remember him as a child and didn’t care for him then. Loose fish doesn’t begin to describe the man.”
Phoebe glanced at her friends. “In that case, we shall ensure that Mr. Gawain Tolliver doesn’t get anywhere near Mary.”
“I do not doubt we’ll have plenty of help from the gentlemen for that.” Caro frowned. “My concern is for Mary and Kit.”
“I am positive,” Anna said, giving Caro a reassuring smile, “we’ll think of something.”
“I hope you’re right.” She rubbed her stomach again. “I have a feeling this isn’t going to be easy.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The next morning, Kit strolled into the breakfast room and found Mary already reading a gazetteer while she dug into a dish he’d never seen before. “Good morning.”
She glanced up, startled, as if she had not expected to see anyone else. “Good morning to you as well. I thought you’d still be asleep.”
Apparently she’d taken him for an idleby. Though in fairness, they had not met at breakfast before. Yesterday, not wishing to spoil their fragile accord, he’d had his valet bring him a tray, and the two previous days, Mary had broken her fast in her room. “No, it’s my habit to rise early.” He took the chair next to hers. There were no dishes set out on the sideboard as he was used to, but a pot of tea was on the table. “Is the tea fresh?”
“Let me ring for more.”
She jiggled a small silver bell and Simons appeared immediately. “My lady?”
“Bring a fresh pot of tea, and”—she turned to Kit—“what else would you like to eat?”
Ah, this was his opportunity to discover what she had. “Whatever you’re having is fine.” He took out his quizzing glass. “What is that?”
Mary grinned. “It’s a bacon floddie. They are usually served with eggs and the local sausage, but I’m not fond of any sausage.”
“I’ll have two of those with their full accompaniment, and toast.”
Her butler bowed again and left. Why he thought of the servant as hers when he’d been paying the man’s wages for years, Kit didn’t know.
A few minutes later Simons returned. “Your breakfast will be ready shortly, sir.”
“Thank you.”
As the door closed behind the butler, he considered opening it again for propriety’s sake, but that would appear odd as everyone thought they were married. Why the devil wasn’t Lady Eunice down here playing gooseberry? He’d have to have a word with her. Craning his neck, he attempted to read the paper over Mary’s shoulder. “Is there anything interesting?”
She swallowed and glanced up. “This is thePost. We won’t receive theGazetteuntil later in the day. Are you still interested?”
That was a challenge if he’d ever heard one. Perhaps she didn’t like to share her newspaper, or did not like to be interrupted when reading. “I’m as prone as the next person to want to know what is going on in theton.”
She handed him one of the pages that she’d already read. It was probably good to know she was proprietary over her reading material. “It’s too early in the Season for much to occur, but there is one engagement announcement. A Miss Charlotte Manning has accepted Lord Peter Marshall.”
Simons brought the tea and a stack of buttered toast. Mary poured Kit a cup, adding cream and one sugar. Brilliant woman to have remembered how he liked his tea. Then he focused on what she’d said. “Poor Stanstead.”
She looked over the top of the newssheet. “A friend of yours?”
“Yes.” Kit took a sip of tea. “He is Robert Beaumont’s cousin.”
