rather than linger in the kitchen.
The stairwell was cold and dark, but she paused on the landing to watch through the oriel window as Mr. St. Michael made his way across the snowy gardens. In the depths of a winter night, he would have hopped on his trusty steed and charged to the rescue of a lot of smelly sheep twenty leagues beyond London.
A gust of chilly air doused the candle. Nita found her way to her room through the familiar darkness, said a prayer for Mr. St. Michael’s sheep, and went to bed.
Her last thought was that she should be a little ashamed of herself. Her mother had taught her that a person in possession of the ability to help, especially a person well-placed in Society, was both privileged and obligated to render aid to those in need.
Nita hadn’t offered her opinion on the sheep out of a sense of privilege or obligation. She’d tendered her diagnosis simply because she hadn’t wanted Mr. St. Michael to leave.
She wasn’t ashamed of that at all.
Five
Nita Haddonfield possessed keen medical insight, long blond hair, and curves . Tremaine had guessed at the first two, but the third…
The third revelation was a problem. His cock had awoken with that problem in mind, a puzzle and an inconvenience. A few minutes of self-gratification did nothing to solve the puzzle.
Why her?
She’d made a fetching picture in a faded velvet dressing gown the same shade of blue as her eyes, and she’d brought a cozy elegance to the business of nibbling biscuits. Tremaine’s imagination—ever as unruly as a healthy tup—had latched on to the idea that Lady Nita would be cozy and fun in bed. How he’d leaped to that conclusion about a woman who lacked romantic sentiments, had no use for marriage, and little use for men—
A knock sounded on Tremaine’s door, too decisive to be a footman with more coal or a maid with a tea tray.
“Come in.”
George Haddonfield sauntered through the door, showing a country gentleman’s attire to excellent advantage. “Ready to go down to breakfast, St. Michael?”
“I am, in fact,” Tremaine replied, whipping his cravat into a mathematical. “The earl says I’m to quiz you about coaching inns, packet captains, and French highwaymen.”
George lifted the dish that held Tremaine’s shaving soap and took a whiff. “Beastly time of year to travel. This is quite pleasant. Is it French?”
“Scottish, and no time of year is good for travel. Mud, flies, storms, rain, coaching accidents, pestilence, blistering sun, every season has some blight to offer the weary traveler.”
Tremaine could, that very minute, have been racketing about the snowy lanes of London in a headlong dash for Oxford. What had he been thinking?
“So don’t travel,” George said. “Linger here for another week or so. The ladies would love to show you off at the assembly.”
“A temptation, to be sure.” To be shown off like a prize ram? “I might be leaving today, despite the lure of the assembly. One of my most valuable flocks has taken ill, and I’m awaiting word of their prognosis.”
Tremaine’s wardrobe stood open, and George surveyed its contents.
“You’d be a perishing idiot to ride any distance with the sky promising snow,” George graciously opined. “You’ve traveled on the Continent before. Your waistcoat whispers of Italian silk, and that’s Flemish lace on your shirt cuffs.”
A touch of lace only. French blood would tell. “I’ve traveled at length, though less so in recent years. Why aren’t you married, Haddonfield? You’re comely, well placed, and overly endowed with charm.”
George touched the sleeve of one of Tremaine’s fancier shirts, fingers lingering on the frothy cuff.
“I ought to marry. Travel in quantity doesn’t agree with me.”
Whatever that had to do with anything. Some married men traveled a great deal.
Tremaine dragged a brush through his hair, which was overdue for a shearing. “Lady Nita has also apparently eschewed holy
The stairwell was cold and dark, but she paused on the landing to watch through the oriel window as Mr. St. Michael made his way across the snowy gardens. In the depths of a winter night, he would have hopped on his trusty steed and charged to the rescue of a lot of smelly sheep twenty leagues beyond London.
A gust of chilly air doused the candle. Nita found her way to her room through the familiar darkness, said a prayer for Mr. St. Michael’s sheep, and went to bed.
Her last thought was that she should be a little ashamed of herself. Her mother had taught her that a person in possession of the ability to help, especially a person well-placed in Society, was both privileged and obligated to render aid to those in need.
Nita hadn’t offered her opinion on the sheep out of a sense of privilege or obligation. She’d tendered her diagnosis simply because she hadn’t wanted Mr. St. Michael to leave.
She wasn’t ashamed of that at all.
Five
Nita Haddonfield possessed keen medical insight, long blond hair, and curves . Tremaine had guessed at the first two, but the third…
The third revelation was a problem. His cock had awoken with that problem in mind, a puzzle and an inconvenience. A few minutes of self-gratification did nothing to solve the puzzle.
Why her?
She’d made a fetching picture in a faded velvet dressing gown the same shade of blue as her eyes, and she’d brought a cozy elegance to the business of nibbling biscuits. Tremaine’s imagination—ever as unruly as a healthy tup—had latched on to the idea that Lady Nita would be cozy and fun in bed. How he’d leaped to that conclusion about a woman who lacked romantic sentiments, had no use for marriage, and little use for men—
A knock sounded on Tremaine’s door, too decisive to be a footman with more coal or a maid with a tea tray.
“Come in.”
George Haddonfield sauntered through the door, showing a country gentleman’s attire to excellent advantage. “Ready to go down to breakfast, St. Michael?”
“I am, in fact,” Tremaine replied, whipping his cravat into a mathematical. “The earl says I’m to quiz you about coaching inns, packet captains, and French highwaymen.”
George lifted the dish that held Tremaine’s shaving soap and took a whiff. “Beastly time of year to travel. This is quite pleasant. Is it French?”
“Scottish, and no time of year is good for travel. Mud, flies, storms, rain, coaching accidents, pestilence, blistering sun, every season has some blight to offer the weary traveler.”
Tremaine could, that very minute, have been racketing about the snowy lanes of London in a headlong dash for Oxford. What had he been thinking?
“So don’t travel,” George said. “Linger here for another week or so. The ladies would love to show you off at the assembly.”
“A temptation, to be sure.” To be shown off like a prize ram? “I might be leaving today, despite the lure of the assembly. One of my most valuable flocks has taken ill, and I’m awaiting word of their prognosis.”
Tremaine’s wardrobe stood open, and George surveyed its contents.
“You’d be a perishing idiot to ride any distance with the sky promising snow,” George graciously opined. “You’ve traveled on the Continent before. Your waistcoat whispers of Italian silk, and that’s Flemish lace on your shirt cuffs.”
A touch of lace only. French blood would tell. “I’ve traveled at length, though less so in recent years. Why aren’t you married, Haddonfield? You’re comely, well placed, and overly endowed with charm.”
George touched the sleeve of one of Tremaine’s fancier shirts, fingers lingering on the frothy cuff.
“I ought to marry. Travel in quantity doesn’t agree with me.”
Whatever that had to do with anything. Some married men traveled a great deal.
Tremaine dragged a brush through his hair, which was overdue for a shearing. “Lady Nita has also apparently eschewed holy
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