luncheon, the baron had been encouraged. She was a damnably stubborn woman; likely even poison would have trouble overcoming such a constitution. The thought of laying flowers at her grave cheered him through the afternoon, flowers to celebrate a family fortune finally made secure.
Then she had appeared at dinner, pale and retiring as usual, her only comment that her cat appeared to have run off to go courting in the stables.
Well. So be it. Calibrating a dose of poison was tricky, a calculated risk. At least she’d be leaving her French doors unlocked as long as she fretted over her cat’s whereabouts. A man of parts who could think up one sound plan could easily think up two, or even three.
The baron excused himself from the dinner table and sat smoking cheroots on a bench in the garden. When he spied a certain plump scullery maid scurrying out into the gloaming with the slop pail for the hogs, he rose from his bench, pasted a smile on his face, adjusted himself in his trousers, and set a course to intercept his prey.
***
Augusta rolled over for the twentieth time in as many minutes and sat up.
She wasn’t going to fall asleep, and she wasn’t going to bother the kitchen at this hour to make her some warm milk—which, had she requested it, and had the kitchen provided it, she would have been sharing with her cat, had he still lived.
She sighed with the futility of that thought and grabbed her wrapper from the foot of the bed. The moon had risen and was spilling in through her French doors, which remained open despite the cat’s demise.
The air here was so fresh, so bracingly sweet and cool, Augusta let herself keep the doors cracked as a simple indulgence. Acting on impulse, she tossed the afghan—green-and-white plaid, of course—from her fainting couch over her shoulders and made her way to the terrace.
The gardens were beautiful by moonlight, peaceful and silvery like a faery world.
“Good evening, Miss Augusta.” The large shadow with the low, pleasant voice detached itself from a bench along the wall.
“My lord.”
“Ian,” he said, coming closer. “As we are quite alone. I suppose you could not sleep?”
“I could not, which is silly. My usual ability to rest at any opportunity seems to have gone missing.” She was also missing her slippers, which was beyond silly. He sauntered up to her, his features arranged into a frown as he studied her by the moonlight.
“You miss your cat. Sit with me and tell me about him.” He clasped her wrist in a warm grip and led her back to his bench. This relieved Augusta of the need to demur and fuss and retreat to the solitude of her room, when she really had no interest in such a course.
None at all, and neither did that appall her at all when well it should have.
“He was your guardian cat, was he not?” The earl waited until Augusta took a seat, then came down beside her.
“He was a fat, lazy house cat, but he was mine.”
“He kept your feet warm.”
Augusta’s gaze traveled down to her bare toes. She looked over and saw in the earl’s expression that he’d also taken in her barefoot state—again. Well, let him be shocked, though he didn’t strike her as a man much given to the vapors.
“He kept my heart warm.”
She felt the man beside her measuring those words. Were it broad daylight, were it one of their quiet conversations at the breakfast table, she could not have uttered that truth to him. Out here, in the cool and sweet night air, she didn’t think to keep it to herself.
“Your aunt is throwing herself at my baby brother.”
And he probably would not have said those words to her by day either. “I know. Is this a problem?”
“It means Miss Genie’s chaperone is distracted. That could be a problem.”
“Or a suitor’s opportunity.”
“I suppose it might mean that too.”
He fell silent while Augusta lectured herself on family duty and tried to forget three—no, four—innocuous kisses.
“I’m concerned that
Then she had appeared at dinner, pale and retiring as usual, her only comment that her cat appeared to have run off to go courting in the stables.
Well. So be it. Calibrating a dose of poison was tricky, a calculated risk. At least she’d be leaving her French doors unlocked as long as she fretted over her cat’s whereabouts. A man of parts who could think up one sound plan could easily think up two, or even three.
The baron excused himself from the dinner table and sat smoking cheroots on a bench in the garden. When he spied a certain plump scullery maid scurrying out into the gloaming with the slop pail for the hogs, he rose from his bench, pasted a smile on his face, adjusted himself in his trousers, and set a course to intercept his prey.
***
Augusta rolled over for the twentieth time in as many minutes and sat up.
She wasn’t going to fall asleep, and she wasn’t going to bother the kitchen at this hour to make her some warm milk—which, had she requested it, and had the kitchen provided it, she would have been sharing with her cat, had he still lived.
She sighed with the futility of that thought and grabbed her wrapper from the foot of the bed. The moon had risen and was spilling in through her French doors, which remained open despite the cat’s demise.
The air here was so fresh, so bracingly sweet and cool, Augusta let herself keep the doors cracked as a simple indulgence. Acting on impulse, she tossed the afghan—green-and-white plaid, of course—from her fainting couch over her shoulders and made her way to the terrace.
The gardens were beautiful by moonlight, peaceful and silvery like a faery world.
“Good evening, Miss Augusta.” The large shadow with the low, pleasant voice detached itself from a bench along the wall.
“My lord.”
“Ian,” he said, coming closer. “As we are quite alone. I suppose you could not sleep?”
“I could not, which is silly. My usual ability to rest at any opportunity seems to have gone missing.” She was also missing her slippers, which was beyond silly. He sauntered up to her, his features arranged into a frown as he studied her by the moonlight.
“You miss your cat. Sit with me and tell me about him.” He clasped her wrist in a warm grip and led her back to his bench. This relieved Augusta of the need to demur and fuss and retreat to the solitude of her room, when she really had no interest in such a course.
None at all, and neither did that appall her at all when well it should have.
“He was your guardian cat, was he not?” The earl waited until Augusta took a seat, then came down beside her.
“He was a fat, lazy house cat, but he was mine.”
“He kept your feet warm.”
Augusta’s gaze traveled down to her bare toes. She looked over and saw in the earl’s expression that he’d also taken in her barefoot state—again. Well, let him be shocked, though he didn’t strike her as a man much given to the vapors.
“He kept my heart warm.”
She felt the man beside her measuring those words. Were it broad daylight, were it one of their quiet conversations at the breakfast table, she could not have uttered that truth to him. Out here, in the cool and sweet night air, she didn’t think to keep it to herself.
“Your aunt is throwing herself at my baby brother.”
And he probably would not have said those words to her by day either. “I know. Is this a problem?”
“It means Miss Genie’s chaperone is distracted. That could be a problem.”
“Or a suitor’s opportunity.”
“I suppose it might mean that too.”
He fell silent while Augusta lectured herself on family duty and tried to forget three—no, four—innocuous kisses.
“I’m concerned that
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