Page 3 of The Case of the Curate

His eyebrows flew up, apparently in surprise. “I suppose you must be. I never heard that you were married. What’s he like? Where is he?”

“He had a previous engagement.”

“Just as well. I need to warn you not to throw my title about—not that I can really imagine you my lording me, for you never did that I recall, but still. Here, I am just Mr. Grande the curate.”

As distinct from her old neighbor and childhood playmate Lord Rupert Grande, son of the Marquis of Winster. She tried not to peer at him too closely. She had, in fact, heard that he’d been ordained and had laughed hugely, imagining his own amusement, while wondering at the same time if he minded. Most of Society had been amused, for the mischievous boy had turned into a wickedly attractive rake, by all accounts, up to all the rigs and tricks of Town life. Not that Kate herself had seen him for years. But she had heard some of the talk, and the great joke that was Lord Rupert Grande as a churchman. The Irreverend Grande.

“I thought you’d be a bishop by now,” she said.

“That’s next year in my father’s schedule. How long have you been married?”

“Two years. Are you telling me you really are a country curate, and no one knows you’re Winster’s son?”

“Yes, so don’t blab, Katy, there’s a girl.”

She glared at him, incensed, and he grinned in quick appreciation and, perhaps, apology.

“Sorry. Of course you won’t.”

“Well, I won’t,” she murmured, taking his arm as Lady Chadbon began to lead everyone into dinner, “providing you tell me what you’re up to.”

He bent down to her, and she was suddenly aware of the strong, adult male he had grown into, the hardness of his arm beneath her fingers, the indifferent fabric of his coat, the scent of his skin, at once familiar and strange.

“Don’t mock,” he breathed in her ear. “I am trying to be good.”

She couldn’t work out if he was being rueful or apologetic or just teasing. In any case, she was distracted by the fact that Marcus Otteridge was several places in front of them, a living reminder of her task here. Oh well, if we have to be placed apart at dinner, there will still be the drawing room later. He’ll be more malleable by then…

Not that old Otteridge was known for malleability. But right now, that challenge seemed so much less urgent than the young man beside her, where he had been, and what he had done.

A row of maids in crisp black gowns with white aprons, collars, and caps were lined up along one wall. One of them, an extremely pretty girl whom Kate recalled from the Chadbons’ London house, seemed to be looking directly at her—or perhaps at her escort. Either way, it was bad form, although as even Lady Chadbon had noticed, Rupert was quite out of the ordinary.

“Very well,” Kate said low, when everyone was seated, the first course served, and the chatter rising up and down the table. “Tell me all. If you really are the curate, how did it come about?”

“I pestered the only bishop unacquainted with my father.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“Didn’t want to shuffle papers and shine sermons for the archbishop. Or play politics at his palace.”

“Dear me, no,” she said, seriously, and he grinned, actually nudging her elbow in a friendly sort of way.

“Knew you’d understand. Now, tell me about this Ambrose fellow. Is he worthy?”

“Of what?” she asked, bewildered.

“Kate Hynde, of course.” He flummoxed her utterly by gazing seriously into her eyes. “Is it a love match?”

“Of course,” she said stiffly.

He dropped his gaze to his plate. “Sometimes we do things for the wrong reasons and then they still turn out be right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“No idea. I’m trying to be serious, since the vicar warned me they entertained a serious set at the big house. I was surprised to be invited, even to make up the numbers, but you could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw you.”

“Likewise,” she replied.

He turned to the lady on his other side—Miss Nye, sister of the Tory member of Parliament, Sir Colin Nye—leaving Kate free to converse with the gentleman on hers.