Chapter Two
“Who’s there? Show yourself!”
Kitty’s heart sank at James’s clipped demand. There was nothing for it but to stand up and face him. Mortified to have been caught spying, she brushed the grass from her skirts, squared her shoulders, and stepped around the tree trunk.
“It’s only me.”
Both men stared at her as if she had two heads. The horrified look on James’s face would have been comical, if it wasn’t so insulting.
“Kitty! What are you doing out here on your own?”
She immediately bristled at his disapproving tone. She didn’t need an extra older brother, bossing her about. She retrieved her bonnet and basket from the ground. “I’m on my way to get honey.”
“I’ll accompany you.”
“There’s no need.”
“I insist.”
Unable to think of an argument, she turned to the other man in the clearing and bobbed a belated curtsey. “Good afternoon, Lord Somerton.”
He bowed, and she noticed that he had an injury to his cheek, a cut just below his eye that was already turning blue.
“You’re hurt!”
She sent James a reproachful glare for injuring his opponent in what was clearly supposed to be a friendly practice bout, and he just glared back at her.
“It wasn’t my doing,” he growled.
The earl touched the cut on his cheek. “What, this? Oh, no, it wasn’t him. I got it yesterday. Young Edward Vail hit me with a rock.”
“Good heavens.” There seemed little else to say in response to that—even if Kitty was burning with curiosity.
The earl glanced from James to her and back again and cleared his throat.
“Well, I’ll, erm, best be getting back to the house.”
He grabbed his jacket from a tree stump, picked up the two fencing foils they’d been using to spar, and bowed awkwardly. “Miss Worth, Cashell.”
Kitty watched his retreat, then turned back to James, who was pulling on his jacket.
Seeing him again aroused a whole host of conflicting emotions in her chest, but she lifted her chin and went straight on the offensive. This might be their one chance to speak privately.
“Why didn’t you want to see me in London? I sent my calling card several times, offering to visit. You never replied.” She fixed him with an accusing glare. “I could have sat at your bedside and read to you, or simply talked, to pass the time.”
The sardonic look he sent her made her heart pound. “Do you honestly think, when I have a woman in my chamber, that I want to talk or read?”
Heat rushed to her cheeks at his teasing. He always said the most outrageous things to embarrass her, but she persisted. “I thought we were friends.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw as he bent to fasten his shirt cuff. “Friends.” His tone made it sound like an insult. “Of course we’re friends.”
She sniffed, still offended. She’d needed to reassure herself that he was still alive.
Was he avoiding her because she resembled her brother? People had often remarked that she looked like a smaller, softer version of Andrew. They’d had the same color hair, the same eyes.
Well, that argument went both ways. He reminded her of Andrew just as much. They’d been constant companions, school friends at Eton, then at Cambridge. Half of her childhood memories included him. She supposed it had been inevitable that they’d go and fight Napoleon together, too.
But only Andrew had died.
