castle,” he said. “It is a medieval marvel, my dear, and delightfully untouched by time.”
She shot him a rueful glance. “Yes, I fear the Wentworth line has always had a shocking propensity to fritter money that might have been better spent on modernization.”
“It looks to me as if you’re slowly setting that to rights.”
“Five hundred years of dissolution?” Her mouth twisted. “Well. One does what one can.”
“Surely not all your ancestors were wastrels?”
She laughed, that throaty, unselfconscious laugh he liked so well. “No, you’re right,” she admitted. “A great many were excellent managers, and my grandfather did what he could. But the place has been lost once or twice—Cromwell, the War of the Roses—the Barons d’Allenay always managed to get on the wrong side of every little spat. That, along with a few entrenched gamblers, a couple of womanizers—the sixth baron, we’re told, was an outright bigamist— et voilà! as Aurélie would say—the roofs rot and the coffers sit empty.”
He cast his eyes around. “Oh, it doesn’t look that bad,” he said. “Someone’s been working hard at trimming the wicks and polishing up the brass.”
She smiled in acknowledgment. “My grandfather trained me well,” she said, “and Anstruther, our steward, is like a member of the family. But enough of that. What did Dr. Fitch say? And the whole of it, if you please.”
“Madam, a man would cower at the thought of keeping a secret from you.”
“Ha!” she said on a laugh. “You’ve never cowered in your life, I daresay.”
But she had relaxed into her chair, and pushed it away from the desk. She wore riding clothes, he realized; a plain brown habit that could only be described as serviceable, with an almost mannish cut. Her shirt collar was high and starched, and only her velvet lapels softened the coat. He suspected she’d already ridden out to one of the farms this morning, for there was mud caked around one boot heel.
Oddly, he liked that. Kate looked capable and brimming with vitality. She had not lingered in her bedchamber until noon, fretting over nothing more significant than which jewelry to wear to tea.
Did a great many ladies do that? Yes, he somehow thought they did.
“Well?” she demanded. “Your prognosis, sir?”
“Fitch says time heals all wounds, even those one can’t see,” said Edward. “He thinks my stitches can come out soon. He wasn’t surprised by the problem with arithmetic. And whilst I may walk a little, he still wishes me to rest and avoid eye strain.”
“So no reading?”
He shook his head, and felt another pinprick of frustration.
“Have you felt anything stir? Even a fragment?”
He smiled thinly, hesitating before he spoke. “Well, I had some strange dreams all night,” he confessed, “most of which don’t bear repeating. But in one of them, I found myself walking through a park. And in the dream, I knew that it was Green Park. In London, yes?” He glanced at her for confirmation.
“Yes, in London.”
He nodded. “I could tell that I’d been there before, and often. And I felt as if . . .” He paused, trying to put it into words.
“As if what?” Kate leaned across the corner of the desk, and he wanted, suddenly, to kiss her again. He let his gaze drift over her face, hoping she could not see the hunger there.
“I felt as if I were going somewhere familiar,” he said quietly. “There was an urgency about it—I needed to get there. And then I was striding through this narrow passageway—like an alley—with gaslight at the end. Then I woke up, feeling strangely relieved.”
Kate was tapping a finger on the desktop. “There are a couple of places where one can enter St. James directly from the park,” she said after a moment had passed. “Perhaps you live near there?”
He lifted his eyebrows. “I didn’t realize you knew London well.”
“Not especially,” she admitted. “But before Belgravia became all
She shot him a rueful glance. “Yes, I fear the Wentworth line has always had a shocking propensity to fritter money that might have been better spent on modernization.”
“It looks to me as if you’re slowly setting that to rights.”
“Five hundred years of dissolution?” Her mouth twisted. “Well. One does what one can.”
“Surely not all your ancestors were wastrels?”
She laughed, that throaty, unselfconscious laugh he liked so well. “No, you’re right,” she admitted. “A great many were excellent managers, and my grandfather did what he could. But the place has been lost once or twice—Cromwell, the War of the Roses—the Barons d’Allenay always managed to get on the wrong side of every little spat. That, along with a few entrenched gamblers, a couple of womanizers—the sixth baron, we’re told, was an outright bigamist— et voilà! as Aurélie would say—the roofs rot and the coffers sit empty.”
He cast his eyes around. “Oh, it doesn’t look that bad,” he said. “Someone’s been working hard at trimming the wicks and polishing up the brass.”
She smiled in acknowledgment. “My grandfather trained me well,” she said, “and Anstruther, our steward, is like a member of the family. But enough of that. What did Dr. Fitch say? And the whole of it, if you please.”
“Madam, a man would cower at the thought of keeping a secret from you.”
“Ha!” she said on a laugh. “You’ve never cowered in your life, I daresay.”
But she had relaxed into her chair, and pushed it away from the desk. She wore riding clothes, he realized; a plain brown habit that could only be described as serviceable, with an almost mannish cut. Her shirt collar was high and starched, and only her velvet lapels softened the coat. He suspected she’d already ridden out to one of the farms this morning, for there was mud caked around one boot heel.
Oddly, he liked that. Kate looked capable and brimming with vitality. She had not lingered in her bedchamber until noon, fretting over nothing more significant than which jewelry to wear to tea.
Did a great many ladies do that? Yes, he somehow thought they did.
“Well?” she demanded. “Your prognosis, sir?”
“Fitch says time heals all wounds, even those one can’t see,” said Edward. “He thinks my stitches can come out soon. He wasn’t surprised by the problem with arithmetic. And whilst I may walk a little, he still wishes me to rest and avoid eye strain.”
“So no reading?”
He shook his head, and felt another pinprick of frustration.
“Have you felt anything stir? Even a fragment?”
He smiled thinly, hesitating before he spoke. “Well, I had some strange dreams all night,” he confessed, “most of which don’t bear repeating. But in one of them, I found myself walking through a park. And in the dream, I knew that it was Green Park. In London, yes?” He glanced at her for confirmation.
“Yes, in London.”
He nodded. “I could tell that I’d been there before, and often. And I felt as if . . .” He paused, trying to put it into words.
“As if what?” Kate leaned across the corner of the desk, and he wanted, suddenly, to kiss her again. He let his gaze drift over her face, hoping she could not see the hunger there.
“I felt as if I were going somewhere familiar,” he said quietly. “There was an urgency about it—I needed to get there. And then I was striding through this narrow passageway—like an alley—with gaslight at the end. Then I woke up, feeling strangely relieved.”
Kate was tapping a finger on the desktop. “There are a couple of places where one can enter St. James directly from the park,” she said after a moment had passed. “Perhaps you live near there?”
He lifted his eyebrows. “I didn’t realize you knew London well.”
“Not especially,” she admitted. “But before Belgravia became all
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