Eleven
“Not more snow?” Snowflakes were settling on Kathlyn’s cloak while she and Courtney waited outside the opera for their carriage to be brought ‘round. “I so wanted to see the new steam engine tomorrow.”
“Perhaps this is only a flurry. Let’s stand there, under the overhang.”
Others had the same idea. Soon quite a crowd was pressed into the narrow protected area. Of the happy theater-goers, some gentlemen were made known to Kathlyn, others not. Of the ones Courtney did present, he also introduced some of their female companions, some not. Of the women, Kathlyn was beginning to note the difference in the ones whose names Lord Chase gave: the harsher look, the coarser accents, the first-name familiarity, and a bit of face paint here and there streaking in the wet falling snow. More definitively, the hired ladies wore more jewelry than the “real” ladies. Kathlyn’s bare throat pleased her better than any of the gaudy necklaces she saw.
A gentleman with his arm around a red-haired girl invited the viscount and Kitty to join them at the Pulteney for a late supper. Two others seconded the invite.
Courtney had been planning on taking Kitty there for dinner, telling himself they had to plan their costumes for the Cyprians’ Ball. Mainly he hadn’t tired of looking at her yet. Now he couldn’t take her there, not to have her by himself, without seeming standoffish. And the evening had been harrowing enough, what with every lecher trying to see through Kitty’s gown. The ball was unavoidable, but Courtney had never meant to expose his misplaced governess to more vulgarity than necessary. The language at these late dinners could become quite warm, not meant for tender ears, and the behavior rowdier still, especially if a private parlor was hired.
“Sorry,” he said, “we have other plans.” It might have been better to accept, then go on their way after a toast or two, before the party grew uninhibited. Now he had to put up with loud guffaws and ribald comments about those “other plans.” Thank goodness, Courtney thought, Kitty wouldn’t understand the half of them.
The boisterous, cheerful crowd moved off, settling into two carriages, the females atop the men’s laps so they’d all fit.
“Shameless,” declared a woman behind Courtney.
He turned to see which old harridan was so offended. Surprisingly, it wasn’t one of his mother’s cronies at all. “Lady Fostwick, my lord.” Courtney made a polite bow and turned back.
Lady Fostwick, nee Adelina Marlowe, wasn’t letting the viscount off that easily. She jerked her head in Kathlyn’s direction, snapping an egret feather from her headpiece into her husband’s left eye. “I see your lofty principles barely lasted as long as the engagement, sirrah,” she sniped.
Courtney bent his head in her husband’s direction. “And I see your heartbreak lasted almost until the next Venetian breakfast, my lady.”
Refusing to let Courtney think she still pined for his golden curls, dimpled cheeks, or forty thousand a year, Adelina tittered. “La, sir, heartbreak? What did hearts ever have to do with such arrangements?”
“What, indeed?” Lord Chase glanced at Fostwick, Adelina’s senior by at least thirty years, in his old-fashioned bag wig, with snuff stains dribbled down his shirtfront. “My belated congratulations, my lord. Excuse me for not offering them sooner, but I was on the Peninsula. Word of your marriage did not arrive until too many months were passed.”
“Quite, quite. Lucky man, eh?”
Adelina had chipmunk cheeks, two chins, and sausage-shaped fingers. “Indeed, but not as fortunate as I consider myself,” Courtney declared. Before Adelina could interpret that barbed comment correctly, the viscount drew Kathlyn forward. “My dear, may I present Lord and Lady Fostwick. Miss Kitty Parke.”
Bright spots of color appeared on Adelina’s plump cheeks. She bobbed her head a scant quarter of an inch, then grabbed
“Not more snow?” Snowflakes were settling on Kathlyn’s cloak while she and Courtney waited outside the opera for their carriage to be brought ‘round. “I so wanted to see the new steam engine tomorrow.”
“Perhaps this is only a flurry. Let’s stand there, under the overhang.”
Others had the same idea. Soon quite a crowd was pressed into the narrow protected area. Of the happy theater-goers, some gentlemen were made known to Kathlyn, others not. Of the ones Courtney did present, he also introduced some of their female companions, some not. Of the women, Kathlyn was beginning to note the difference in the ones whose names Lord Chase gave: the harsher look, the coarser accents, the first-name familiarity, and a bit of face paint here and there streaking in the wet falling snow. More definitively, the hired ladies wore more jewelry than the “real” ladies. Kathlyn’s bare throat pleased her better than any of the gaudy necklaces she saw.
A gentleman with his arm around a red-haired girl invited the viscount and Kitty to join them at the Pulteney for a late supper. Two others seconded the invite.
Courtney had been planning on taking Kitty there for dinner, telling himself they had to plan their costumes for the Cyprians’ Ball. Mainly he hadn’t tired of looking at her yet. Now he couldn’t take her there, not to have her by himself, without seeming standoffish. And the evening had been harrowing enough, what with every lecher trying to see through Kitty’s gown. The ball was unavoidable, but Courtney had never meant to expose his misplaced governess to more vulgarity than necessary. The language at these late dinners could become quite warm, not meant for tender ears, and the behavior rowdier still, especially if a private parlor was hired.
“Sorry,” he said, “we have other plans.” It might have been better to accept, then go on their way after a toast or two, before the party grew uninhibited. Now he had to put up with loud guffaws and ribald comments about those “other plans.” Thank goodness, Courtney thought, Kitty wouldn’t understand the half of them.
The boisterous, cheerful crowd moved off, settling into two carriages, the females atop the men’s laps so they’d all fit.
“Shameless,” declared a woman behind Courtney.
He turned to see which old harridan was so offended. Surprisingly, it wasn’t one of his mother’s cronies at all. “Lady Fostwick, my lord.” Courtney made a polite bow and turned back.
Lady Fostwick, nee Adelina Marlowe, wasn’t letting the viscount off that easily. She jerked her head in Kathlyn’s direction, snapping an egret feather from her headpiece into her husband’s left eye. “I see your lofty principles barely lasted as long as the engagement, sirrah,” she sniped.
Courtney bent his head in her husband’s direction. “And I see your heartbreak lasted almost until the next Venetian breakfast, my lady.”
Refusing to let Courtney think she still pined for his golden curls, dimpled cheeks, or forty thousand a year, Adelina tittered. “La, sir, heartbreak? What did hearts ever have to do with such arrangements?”
“What, indeed?” Lord Chase glanced at Fostwick, Adelina’s senior by at least thirty years, in his old-fashioned bag wig, with snuff stains dribbled down his shirtfront. “My belated congratulations, my lord. Excuse me for not offering them sooner, but I was on the Peninsula. Word of your marriage did not arrive until too many months were passed.”
“Quite, quite. Lucky man, eh?”
Adelina had chipmunk cheeks, two chins, and sausage-shaped fingers. “Indeed, but not as fortunate as I consider myself,” Courtney declared. Before Adelina could interpret that barbed comment correctly, the viscount drew Kathlyn forward. “My dear, may I present Lord and Lady Fostwick. Miss Kitty Parke.”
Bright spots of color appeared on Adelina’s plump cheeks. She bobbed her head a scant quarter of an inch, then grabbed
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