Page 6 of Nice Earls Do

Some friend he was.

“May I see some of the rest of the house on our way?” she asked. “It will help me to understand what’s wanted upstairs.”

“I...yes. Yes, of course.” Ferncliffe was one of the showpieces of Hertfordshire.

So why then did he feel a sense of dread at the prospect of showing it to her?

When she said nothing else, he focused on the sound of her footsteps—a brisk, ominous tick-tick-tick against marble; more hollow on wood; muffled almost to silence where carpets had been laid—as they passed from room to room. Most were cold, dim: dark curtains drawn even against the feeble winter sun, the furniture strange ghostly shapes beneath holland cloth.

“I haven’t had much occasion to use a ballroom,” he explained sheepishly, “or a dining room that seats twenty.”

The brim of her bonnet tilted in acknowledgment. “But surely in four years’ time, you might have redecorated a bit. Made the place your own.”

“I suppose,” he acknowledged. “But I have preferred to spend my time and effort out of doors. The last earl was not as careful of the rest of the estate as he might have been. The house is...well, as you see it. But the farms, the village...” The people. “I inherited just in time to rescue that stream you must have driven over. The landscape architect he had hired wanted to redirect it to be visible from the house. No one involved seemed to have considered that it would be more difficult to raise crops on the south farms without water.”

Good Lord. He was babbling worse than a brook. And about water conservation. He needed someone to redirect him.

Beth only nodded. “How fortunate, then, that you came when you did. Still...” Her voice dropped lower; he found himself leaning toward her to catch her words. “It would be nice to see something of you in these rooms, as there is in the study.”

A curious sort of pleasure bloomed in his chest. “Oh? I always imagined you thought of me as being precisely like this drawing room: stuffy and old-fashioned.”

She laughed, then slowly shook her head. “Not stuffy. Cautious. Careful—caring, I suppose I should say. You certainly came to Edmund’s rescue many times.” Another laugh, more rueful. “And mine.”

Yes, he had. Except when it had mattered most. But he’d had little prospect of preventing her wedding to Manwaring. Her father had been determined to marry his only daughter to a title and a fortune, and until four years ago, Kit had had neither. Even knowing how she’d dreaded the match, Kit wasn’t convinced she would have had him instead.

“You never married,” she said, still quiet.

It wasn’t precisely a question, at least not one Kit had to answer. He took some grim comfort in the fact that her thoughts had been traveling a similar path to his.

He had never told Beth how much he loved her; perhaps he hadn’t really known himself until it was too late to do anything more than dream of what might have been. But he’d never seriously contemplated marrying someone else. How could he fairly and honestly pledge himself to another when his heart would always be hers?

“Well,” she went on more briskly, steering them away from the drawing room as she spoke, “it’s clear you need a lady’s advice.” The brim of her bonnet pointed the way to the final set of stairs.

“So Mrs. Rushworth has often told me. I suppose that’s why she wrote to Mrs. Goode without telling me—she knew I would have dismissed the idea out of hand. I am sorry to have dragged you all this way,” he said, though he knew he did not sound regretful.

Her shoulders rose and fell, making the puffed sleeve of her pelisse brush against his arm. “It’s a welcome change of scenery. At this time of year especially, London can be dreadfully dull.”

Kit smiled to himself, absurdly glad to think that, in her eyes at least, he was not dreadfully dull.

He still could not quite believe it: her story, his luck—any of it.

But he was willing to overlook the improbabilities if it meant another glimpse of her face.

They entered the would-be nursery with her fingers still resting lightly on his sleeve. One speculative glance from young Mr. Oliver—Kit could not ever remember taking such an instant dislike to a person—and her hand fell away. Its absence came with recompense, however. As she looked around the room, she tugged off her gloves, unbuttoned her pelisse, and at last reached up to remove her bonnet.

Free of the bonnet’s shadow, her eyes glittered, a well-remembered spring-sky shade of blue. Her hair, still dark as a raven’s wing, had been artfully arranged not to disguise but to highlight a streak of silver. And her face? Even prettier than he remembered, despite the dismay presently coursing through it.

He forced himself to drag his gaze away from her to the room she was surveying. Footmen and maids had been hard at work for days, clearing out crates and brushing away cobwebs. The windows had been scoured clean—all but the cracked one, which had been boarded over until a new pane of glass could be ordered. The room was warmer as a result, but at the moment, Kit would have welcomed a breath of fresh air.

Though gray, the afternoon light streamed through the remaining windows, reaching into every corner and crevice, disguising nothing. Somehow, Kit thought as he looked around him, things had actually gotten worse. The nursery was bright, yes, but utterly cheerless and comfortless—much like the rest of the house.

Mr. Oliver called Beth to his side with a tut-tutting noise, and they bent their heads together to discuss their plans. Kit could not help but recall how the Tabetha of his youth would have disdained concerns over paint color and drapery fabric. Though Mr. Oliver seemed to be the one making all the decisions....

The approach of Mrs. Rushworth momentarily redirected Kit’s thoughts.

“Mrs. Goode’s secretary says she will inspect today, devise a plan tomorrow morning, and then return to London in the afternoon.”

“So soon?”