Page 39 of An Earl, His Valet, & Their Wife

Nero made a hissing sound. “That was a misunderstanding!”

“Aye,” said Gerard. “The way that items just fall into reticules and pockets all by themselves.”

“Enough,” said Horatia, smoothing her gown, her stare like a viper’s, flat and deadly. “Where is his lordship and that woman?”

Gerard’s every hackle rose. “Beg pardon? That woman? Ye cannae be referring tae Lady Katherine Ellis, Countess of Whitmore, his lordship’s legally wedded wife. They were properly married by the archbishop in the drawing room o’ this very house. Watched by high-ranking witnesses in good standing.”

“My goodness, why is there never a translator when one is needed?” Horatia continued mockingly. “I didn’t understand a word of that. Scots should have to pass some sort of language test before crossing Hadrian’s Wall. I understand charity, but a proper English valet would be so much more suitable.”

“Lord Whitmore did himself a disservice hiring you,” added Nero.

Gerard forced himself to remain stony faced. What a fool he’d been to decline Mrs. Calder’s offer of special tea; no one deserved it more than these two. And yet try as he might to ignore the barbs, there was a deep, vulnerable part of himself that was ashamed of his accent, of how thick it became when his emotions were heightened. Michael loved his accent, said he could listen to it all day. And yet right now, he felt like a lad again, the poor, hungry one who fought and stole and had witnessed things that would haunt him forever. Did they see the petty criminal beneath the fine clothes? Did they know what he’d done to survive?

If they told Michael and Katie the truth…bloody hell. He would be finished.

* * *

The problem with anxiety: no matter how you coaxed or reasoned or howled, it clung like a wet leaf to a boot.

Like an evil heir presumptive.

Michael glared at his mirror as he attempted to arrange his cravat for the sixth time. Naturally, when he needed to be downstairs swiftly, he was all fingers and thumbs. At least Gerry would understand and hold the castle for him, a measure of true love in Michael’s eyes. Gerry didn’t see his earl’s tendency to get flustered and nervous, to fret about things no one else even considered, as a shameful flaw or something to be cured. Just a part of him, like brown hair or lanky limbs. And that acceptance, the ability to step in and assist was more valuable than any jewel.

“Michael?”

He turned and grimaced apologetically at his wife. “Do forgive my tardiness. This damned cravat won’t sit properly, and the more I try, the worse the knots become.”

Katherine strolled into his bedchamber freshly coiffed and gowned in leaf-green, but instead of taking a seat, she came and stood directly beside him. “Can I help? When I was about ten, I pestered my father’s valet to teach me something simple. He agreed but paid a terrible price—my mother squawked for hours when she found out.”

Now Michael did smile. “Please. Anything is better than this. I try and attend to my own cravat like a proper gentleman, but then I get distracted by my thoughts, and…”

Christ. Why had he said that? Far better that his wife not know the full extent of his malady, especially if bloody Nero and Horatia thought him incompetent. Sometimes he felt incompetent. There were days his mind behaved like a bee inside a jar, all frantic and erratic, and his body followed suit with tapping fingers, churning stomach, and relentlessly bouncing foot.

But once again, Katherine surprised him by gently removing his hands from the mangled cravat and holding them in her own. Not saying anything, just warming him. Slowly Michael began to relax, and eventually he took a deep breath and rotated his stiff shoulders.

Katherine nodded briskly, then tamed his cravat into a neat arrangement. “There. Shall we go?”

“How did you do that?” he blurted, as they departed the bedchamber. “And not say something unhelpful like calm down?”

“When, in the history of the world, has the phrase calm down ever helped anxiety?”

“A truth. But do you know someone else with this affliction?”

His wife rested her hand on his sleeve. “Not someone, something. The neighboring country estate to ours bred horses and we often watched the stablehands at work, even helped exercise the friendlier mares. But there was one so skittish it was thought she would never be ridden. The poor thing got yelled at a lot. However, I discovered a soft voice, treats and petting helped tremendously. I suspect she was abused as a foal and never warmed to people. Why would she? People were awful.”

Michael swallowed hard. A tale he could relate to. While his mother and stepfather were wonderful, his father had been a monster. And it seemed those soul scars never truly left, even when circumstances vastly improved. “Did you ride that mare?”

“Yes,” said Katherine. “We became inseparable. Love was the difference.”

“Usually is,” he replied, patting her hand as they descended the stairs. “But you’ll need that gumption shortly. Nero and Horatia are…I can’t even explain them. My late father adored Nero, I swear he would have disowned me for my cousin if he could. I was too soft. Too dreamy. Too much like my mother. I hated hunting and political intrigue, and far worse, had no interest in tupping maids.”

She snorted. “Heaven forfend.”

“I’m afraid they’ll be awful to you. Say terrible things. When I went to open your account at Hatchards, Nero was there and implied that my wedding you and permitting a free hand in choosing and purchasing books meant I was possibly…incompetent.”

Katherine actually halted and turned to face him, her gaze stormy. “He said what?”

“I know,” said Michael irritably. “I should have guessed that Nero would take my getting married rather poorly; he and his wife are, after all, well used to living life at my expense. But…this visit concerns me greatly.”