He rang the bell and when Simons appeared he ordered more bacon floddies. “I take it Barham’s holdings are extensive?”
“Not so much in land as in other investments. My father said my uncle helped build back the family fortunes after my grandfather depleted much of it.”
Kit’s tea-cup hung suspended between the plate and his mouth. “The same uncle who is insisting you marry his son?”
For a moment she’d forgotten about Uncle Hector’s role. Really, Mr. Featherton’s presence had a derogatory effect on her brain. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Which is yet another reason his insistence there was a betrothal agreement does not make sense. He built his own fortune as well. Why would his son have any need of marrying an heiress?”
“I have people looking for your uncle. When we find him, we’ll make a point to ask.” Kit drained the last of the tea.
Mary appreciated his concern, but doubted he would have success where her brother had failed. She glanced up to find his plate already clean. He must have polished off the last of the toast as well. She would have to ensure there was more food on the table to-morrow, or have a few serving dishes set out. That would please Cook. “What are your plans for the day?”
“I thought I’d leave it to you. What would you normally do?”
Simons reappeared with floddies, toast, and another pot of tea.
“Yesterday, I was making assessments. To-day is when I take the tenants items they need or could use. I detest those ladies who ride out bestowing their bounty, never knowing what a family truly requires.” Try as she might, Mary couldn’t keep the hard edge from her voice. But what did it matter? He should know how she felt.
“You make a good point.” Kit cut his eggs, and held the fork out to her. “You looked as if you wanted more.”
She opened her mouth, closing it around the savory dish. “I love this.” As she chewed, he poured her another cup of tea, adding milk and sugar. “You really don’t have to do that.”
“But I like to,” he said, feeding her another forkful.
Soon the floddies, toast, and tea were finished. He put his serviette on the table and stood. “I’ll go with you. Although you have left me little to be concerned with when it comes to the farming. I recently heard of a new plow that might be helpful here.”
Ooh, it would be beyond anything if he really knew about . . . “The one with the self-scouring moldboard?”
He looked almost like a peacock preening. “Exactly.”
Talk about prayers being answered. “I wanted to buy one, but we have not been able to afford them for all the tenants.”
“If you agree”—he gave her the warm look that she was coming to like so much—“I’ll make arrangements to have one delivered for every tenant and the home farm.”
Before she could stop herself, Mary jumped up and wrapped her arms around his neck. “That would be wonderful.”
He stood, his arm snaking around her waist. When he gazed down at her, she was sure Kit would kiss her. She puckered her lips and . . .
The door opened. “Oh, excuse me, my lady.”
Drat, drat, drat. She dropped her arms, and Kit stepped away. “It’s all right, Simons. Mr. Featherton and I were just leaving.” All she wanted was a kiss. Was fate scheming against her? “I’ll meet you at the stables, sir.”
“I won’t be long, my lady.”
She hurried out of the room. Somehow, she must find a way to give him another opportunity to kiss her, and she would tell Simons from now on to knock if the door was closed. Especially at breakfast. She remembered Phoebe writing that her husband had accomplished a great deal of important courting at the breakfast table. Caro had told Mary that her husband fed her. Mary might not have croissants and chocolate, but she had floddies and tea.
Damn, that was close. Kit resisted the urge to swipe his hand across his forehead. Her joy had been so real, her lips so tempting, he’d almost forgotten his vow. Kissing and the rest would have to wait until after the betrothal.
Thank God, he knew they would marry. He didn’t think he could manage it if that wasn’t already settled. He had scorned Beaumont for trying to trap Serena, but if it weren’t for Kit’s grandmother’s machinations . . . He could understand why his friend had been so desperate. The more he came to know Mary, the more he liked her. Not only was she intelligent and practical, but she seemed to become more beautiful each day. How that was possible, he wasn’t sure. She’d already been the loveliest lady he knew. Not to mention his desire for her was growing by leaps and bounds. He’d never been so attracted to a woman before. He wanted her; no, he needed her. In his home andhis bed. He had one, now he needed to work on the other. How long would it take before she agreed to be his wife?
He made it out to the wagon mere minutes before she appeared. Why it was so important for him to be there first, he didn’t know. Nineteen baskets were already loaded. Strange, he’d thought he had more tenants than that. Not wanting to ask her, he reviewed the names in his head. Twenty-one. She walked out with Cook, carrying two bags.
“Ye tell ’em that was the best batch of barley I ever had,” the older woman said.
“I won’t forget. They will love your spice loaves. Mrs. Davies says you make the best ones in the county and England.”
Cook blushed. “G’an on with ye, ma lady.”
Mary smiled. “It’s the truth.”
