Page 4 of Nice Earls Do

“She’s here.” In his stuttering attempt at comprehension, the words came out half statement, half question.

“Yes, sir. With her secretary, Mr. Oliver. To help us,” she finished, brightening. “Shall I show them in?”

He didn’t think he’d answered her. He still didn’t think Mrs. Goode was real. But the housekeeper turned from the room with a purposeful stride, and he found himself unfolding his hands, laying them flat on the desktop, and pushing to his feet, just in case.

A moment later, he heard steps along the corridor. Mrs. Rushworth reappeared and curtsied. “Mrs. Goode to see you, my lord.”

A lady entered behind her. A flesh-and-blood lady, clad in a china-blue pelisse. More, he could not say, for her head was turned in such a way that he could see nothing beyond the brim of her bonnet, not a glimpse of her profile, not even the color of her hair.

She was speaking low to someone behind her: her secretary, he presumed. He could not make out her words. But the voice... Its huskiness sent a spark along his spine, like the sensation of a touch tracing the contours of each vertebra. A familiar touch...

He kept his hands planted firmly on his desk, suddenly conscious that if he lifted them, he would reveal two perfect prints, the sweat of his palms dark against the leather blotter.

The secretary, Mr. Oliver, entered behind Mrs. Goode. He was a tall, slender young man with a veritable mop of curly dark brown hair, his coat and greatcoat gaping open to reveal the flash of a pink-and-green checked waistcoat. One of Mrs. Goode’s gloved hands rose to brush a few raindrops from Mr. Oliver’s shoulder, a surprisingly intimate gesture between a lady and her secretary.

Before Kit had succeeded in tamping down a rush of jealousy, to say nothing of examining the absurdity of such a reaction, the woman turned, and his brain—moments before, as solid and impervious as a kiln-fired brick—turned to mush.

Beth—unmistakably his Beth, though twenty years had passed since his parting look at her—was stepping toward him.

She extended that same hand in greeting, and though her steady blue gaze appeared to be focused on him, he could tell she hadn’t really seen him. Not yet.

He knew precisely the moment she did. The flicker of recognition. The flash of disbelief. Her cheeks paled, then pinked, and the outstretched hand drew back and fluttered to the base of her throat. “Lord Stalbridge?”

The necessity of coming forward and helping her to a chair prevented him from giving in to the temptation to sink into one himself. He curled his hand beneath her elbow and eased her to a seat, bending close enough that he could smell her perfume, an inviting mixture of pear blossoms and vanilla.

“Are you quite well...Mrs. Goode?” She had never been far from his thoughts, but the address was strange on his lips. Manwaring had been the fellow’s title, the dour old hermit her father had insisted she marry, all so he could hear his only daughter addressed as “my lady.”

She didn’t answer, merely searched his face, her eyes wide with aching wonder. Then her gaze dropped to his hand, which had slid up from her elbow to curve around her upper arm, a forward gesture, even in spite of their history. He tried to marshal his mind—more custard than pudding, more mortar than brick—to order his fingers to relax their grip.

But every instinct told him never to let her go again.

Chapter 2

Kit Killigrew.

Tabetha curled her fingers into the arms of the chair to keep from lifting her hands to caress his face, just to prove to herself he was real. How was it possible? Here? After all this time? And...Lord Stalbridge?

Both Oliver and Mrs. Rushworth had hurried forward and now stood, one at either side of the chair to which Kit had helped her. “Is aught amiss, ma’am?” asked the housekeeper, while Oliver’s brow furrowed with worry.

“I—I’m fine,” she insisted, though unconvincingly. “Just a sudden spate of dizziness. I am prone to carriage sickness, you know.”

Oliver must have recognized it for the lie it was, an excuse fabricated to explain her sudden faintness; his expression shifted into puzzlement. His curious glance toward Kit’s hand, still wrapped warmly around her arm, made Kit at last release her. He pushed himself backward a few steps to lean against the front of his desk, as if he, too, were not quite steady on his feet.

“I’ll fetch tea, shall I?” Mrs. Rushworth offered.

“That won’t be necessary,” said Kit—Lord Stalbridge—abruptly. “If you would take Mr. Oliver to the attic—er, nursery, Mrs. Rushworth, I daresay he might begin by, um...”

“Taking measurements?” Tabetha suggested. Though it really should not have been a question. Someone with Mrs. Goode’s experience ought to know exactly how to proceed. “His lordship and I will follow you up momentarily. I’m almost recovered.”

She wasn’t. Her heart was pounding so hard, she feared it might burst free of her chest. But why? Yes, it was a surprise to find Kit Killigrew at Ferncliffe. And yes, she was pleased to be reunited with a dear childhood friend, as anyone might. But neither surprise nor friendship was an adequate explanation for the fact that her insides seemed to be performing pirouettes.

“Of course, Mrs. Goode,” Oliver said. “Whatever you wish.”

She watched his glance travel skeptically, protectively, between Tabetha and Kit before he followed the housekeeper from the room.

Once the others had gone, neither she nor Kit seemed to know what to say. Without taking his eyes from her, as if fearful she might disappear if he did, he fished for the decanter sitting on a tray on one corner of the desk and nearly knocked it over. “I think I could use a splash of something stronger than tea,” he said at last, laughing as he snagged the heavy crystal stopper between his first two fingers and reached for a tumbler with the other hand. “How about you?”

“Please,” she managed to whisper, gratefully accepting the glass he handed her, which contained a scant swallow of some amber-colored liquid. His own glass, she noted, contained rather more. She lifted the drink to her lips and tasted brandy.