Page 4 of An Earl, His Valet, & Their Wife

Everyone would be happy.

* * *

“Katherine! KAAAAAATHERINNNNNNNNE.”

Lady Katherine Kirk sat bolt upright, barely managing to shove the contraband copy of The Castle of Wolfenbach under her pillow as the bedchamber door burst open to reveal her panting, red-faced mother.

“Yes?” Katherine asked, in the calm tone one might use with a murderous count on a misty moor.

“You look a fright—change your gown immediately. Don’t you dare argue, this is the most important day of your life.”

Katherine’s brow furrowed. There was an odd gleam in the Marchioness of Queenhill’s eyes, like she was excited beyond measure, and that never boded well. “Not until you tell me what is going on.”

Her mother near-sprinted to the armoire, soon returning with the most godawful gown in England: heavy white velvet trimmed with white lace, the kind a woman should only wear while haunting a churchyard at midnight. “A gentleman has come calling.”

Katherine groaned inwardly. Not again. Who was it this time? The local ratcatcher? Some drunken sailor on shore leave? A cave-dwelling minotaur? Lady Queenhill had long ago ceased caring about suitability in her quest.

In truth, even a minotaur would be preferable to this nonsense. Holding out for timeless true love that stood firm against oppression and villainy was a fool’s errand, especially for a daughter of the nobility.

“Mother, take a breath before you swoon.”

“I probably will swoon, for a genuine miracle has occurred. The gentleman downstairs is the Earl of Whitmore. And he wants to marry you.”

Katherine froze. Oh no. She’d actually broken her mother, for only a madwoman would make such an outrageous claim. After the Duke of Devonshire, Lord Whitmore was the most sought-after bachelor in the realm. Handsome, wealthy, excellent address, and at thirty-five, prime marriage material. More importantly, he was kind. The type of fellow who escorted lonely wallflowers to the supper table, offered clean handkerchiefs for tears, and sent anonymous donations to orphan houses. For the longest time. the most beautiful and accomplished ladies in England had hurled themselves at the earl to no avail. There were simply no circumstances where such a prize would offer for a too-tall, too-thin, twenty-five-year-old bluestocking.

“Have you been sniffing camphor again?” asked Katherine sternly. “I’ve already warned you that is not to be trifled with.”

Lady Queenhill beamed then moved behind Katherine to unfasten her gown buttons with ruthless purpose. “Bid farewell to your impudent tongue and bookish nonsense, my girl. A countess has far more important tasks. Balls. House parties. Oh, and filling the nursery, of course. Long past time Whitmore secured the title, and fortunately, mine is a very fertile line. Arms up! Ugh, I should have sewn some padding into your stays. Such a shame your bosom is so lacking, but pregnancy will assist with that.”

As her gown was yanked away to be replaced by a waterfall of itchy white velvet, Katherine blushed. Unlike many mothers, hers was disturbingly frank. It remained thoroughly unsurprising her elder sisters had all swooned during the bedding talk. But for Mother to speak so openly, she truly believed this marriage would happen. “Is Lord Whitmore really downstairs?”

“Indeed,” said the marchioness happily. “Talking terms with Queenhill as we speak. Then he’ll officially propose.”

“And if I decline? OW!”

“Dear me, did that pinch? I do apologize. And you’ll not decline a perfect offer, we would be laughingstocks. I would wash my hands of you.”

Katherine winced as her unruly blond hair was roughly brushed and tied back with a white ribbon. There would be no reasoning with her mother; prudence meant playing along and hearing the earl out. “Then we’d best not keep Lord Whitmore waiting.”

Far too soon, she stood trapped in her father’s dusty, criminally underused library. Oh God. He looked like a cat with the canary and the cream.

“Ah, Katherine,” said Lord Queenhill briskly. “I am delighted to present your betrothed, Lord Whitmore.”

She couldn’t halt a gasp. “Father…”

“Come now, Queenhill. At least let me make my case to your daughter, lest she think I’m a heartless ogre.”

At the soothing baritone voice offering a touch of wry humor, her head jerked toward the fireplace where Michael Ellis, Earl of Whitmore, lounged.

Good grief, he was handsome. A sweet smile, neatly trimmed brown hair, sculpted jaw, and a pair of onyx-rimmed spectacles perched upon a rather noble nose. The spectacles only added to his allure, offering a gravitas, an air of intelligence that was extremely attractive. Even better, he was tall! Unlike most gentlemen, she would actually have to look up at him. It was also obvious why half the lords in London had tried to steal his valet. Lord Whitmore was immaculately attired in a tailored gray jacket, silver waistcoat, plain linen shirt, black trousers, and black shoes. Diamonds winked discreetly from his shirt cuffs and shoe buckles. The very portrait of a wealthy, supremely eligible earl.

Who somehow wanted to marry her? No. There must be a game afoot. It was just a matter of finding out what…and if she wanted to play it.

Katherine stared suspiciously at Lord Whitmore. “Hardly an ogre, my lord, but I hope we’ll have at least one conversation before you propose. Unless you wish only to make the acquaintance of my belly?”

“Katherine,” said her father sharply, slamming his fist on the desk.

Surprisingly, the earl looked unfazed. “It is a fair question. With your leave, Queenhill, I should like to stroll with Lady Katherine in the garden so we might talk privately.”