Word of her return spread quickly. She dutifully sustained visits from the rector’s wife and from Lady Dersingham, the wife of a neighboring landowner. Kit’s tonnish grace impressed both ladies. Her manner was assured, her deportment perfection. In the faraway capital she might hold herself insultingly aloof, but at Cranmer, she was Spencer’s granddaughter.
Chapter 2
On the afternoon of her third day of freedom, Kit donned her green-velvet riding habit and asked for a sidesaddle to be put on Delia. When with Spencer or alone, she’d taken to riding astride, scandalously dressed in breeches and coat. The clothes had been made for her years before; Elmina had let down the hems and remade the breeches to fit. The coat was an old one of her cousin Geoffrey’s, recut to her slighter frame but still loose enough to disguise her figure should the need arise. Now that her hair was cropped, leaving the flame-colored curls rioting about her head, she hardly needed the protection of the old tricorne that completed her highly irregular outfit. When garbed in her male attire, a hat shading her features, her sex was moot.
Today she was bound for Gresham Manor. Her closest friend, whom she hadn’t seen in years, lived quietly there with her parents. Amy had never had to go to London. She’d contracted a suitable alliance with a local gentleman of acceptable birth and reasonable fortune; that much, Kit knew from her letters. Amy’s gentleman was with Wellington’s forces in the Peninsula; their wedding would take place once he returned.
Kit rode up the long drive of Gresham Manor and directly around to the stables.
“Miss Cranmer!” The groom came running to take her horse’s bridle. “Didn’t recognize you for a minute there, miss. Back from London town, are ye?”
“That’s right, Jeffries.” Kit smiled and slid from Delia’s back. “Is Miss Amy in?”
“Kit? It is you!”
Turning, Kit barely had time to verify that the figure descending on her was indeed Amy, golden hair in fashionable ringlets, peaches-and-cream complexion still perfect, before she was enveloped in a warm embrace.
“I saw you ride past the library windows and wondered if Mr. Woodley’s sermons had sent me to sleep, and I was dreaming.”
Kit laughed. “Goose! I’ve been back only a few days and couldn’t wait to see you and hear all your news. Is your fiancé back yet?”
“Yes! It’s the most wonderful thing!” Amy gripped Kit’s fingers, her eyes shining. “First him—now you. Clearly the gods have decided to be especially kind.”
Amy drew back, holding Kit at arm’s length to study her elegant attire, the short velvet coat, clasped with gold frogs, and the gracefully sweeping velvet skirts. Amy’s brown gaze returned to Kit bobbed curls, and she grimaced. “Drat! You make me feel positively dowdy. I don’t know whether I’ll introduce you to George after all.”
Kit laughed and drew Amy’s arm through hers. “Fear not. I’ve no designs on your fiance—very likely he’ll be either terrified or disapproving of my wild ways.” They started for the house.
“George,” Amy declared, “is utterly sensible. I’m sure you’ll approve of each other. But I’m dying of curiosity. Why are you back? And why didn’t you write and warn me?”
Kit smiled. “It’s a long story. Perhaps I should meet your mother first, then maybe we can find a nice quiet nook?”
Amy nodded; arm in arm, they entered the house. Lady Gresham, a motherly woman who ruled her household with a firm but benevolent hand, had always had a soft spot for Kit. She insisted the girls take tea with her but, beyond extracting the information that Kit was still unbetrothed, made no effort to learn more of her recent past.
Eventually released, Amy and Kit took refuge in Amy’s bedchamber. Settled in the billows of the bed, Kit smiled. She and Amy had been closer than sisters since the age of six; six years’ separation, bridged by letters, hadn’t dinted their easy familiarity.
At Amy’s prompting, Kit recounted the tale of her aunts’ machinations and how they’d contrived to hold her for six long years. “If it hadn’t been for my cousins, I’m sure their persuasions to marry would have been a great deal more drastic. Once, they locked me in my room for two days, until Geoffrey appeared on the doorstep and insisted on seeing me.” Kit grimaced. “After that, they were reduced to nagging. But when they wheeled in the earl of Roberts, I decided enough was enough. The man was old enough to be my father!” Kit frowned. “And he was altogether…not nice,” she ended lamely. “After that, my aunts finally conceded defeat and declared me unmarriageable. So I was allowed to come home—I knew Gran’pa would at least give me houseroom.”
Amy sent her a stern look. “He was heartbroken when you left. I did tell you.”
Kit’s eyes clouded, violet hazed with grey. “I know, but my aunts were very clever.” A short silence fell; Kit broke it with a sigh. “So now I’m finished with London and with men. I can live very happily without either.”
Amy frowned. “Is it wise to go that far? After all, who knows what delicious gentleman might be lurking around the next bend in your road?”
“Just as long as he stays out of my road, I’ll be satisfied.”
“Oh, Kit. Not all men are old dodderers or fops. Some are quite personable. Like George.”
With a “Humph,” Kit turned on her stomach and propped her chin in her hands. “Enough of my affairs. Tell me about this George of yours.”
George, it transpired, was the only son of the Smeatons of Smeaton Hall, located some way beyond Gresham Manor. He was twelve years Kit’s senior; she could not recall meeting either him or his parents before.
“It’s reassuring knowing I’ll not be too far away,” Amy concluded. “We must have you and your grandfather over for dinner and introduce you to George and his parents.”
Noting the happiness shining in Amy’s face, Kit agreed with what enthusiasm she could. It was obvious to the meanest intelligence that Amy was head over heels in love with George, and that soon Kit would lose her best friend to matrimony. Amy chattered on; eventually, a frown tugging at her brows, Kit broke into her narrative. “Amy,why do you want to marry?”
“Why?” The question stopped Amy in her tracks. Then, realizing Kit meant the question literally, she marshaled her thoughts. “Because I love George and want to be with him for the rest of my life.” She looked hopefully at Kit, willing her to understand.
Kit stared back, violet eyes intent. “You want to marry him because you love him?” When Amy nodded, she asked: “What’s love feel like?”
Brow furrowed, Amy considered. “Well,” she began, “you know all about the…the act, don’t you?”
“Of course I know about that.” They were both country bred—such matters were inescapable facts of country life.
“But what’s that got to do with love?”
“Well,” Amy continued, “when you love a man you want to…do that with him.”
Kit frowned. “Do you really want to do that with your George?”
Blushing furiously, Amy nodded.
Kit’s brows rose, then she shrugged. “It seems such a peculiar undertaking—so undignified, if you know what I mean.”
Amy choked.
“But how do you know you want to do that with George?” Kit focused on Amy’s face. “You haven’t, have you?”
“Of course I haven’t!” Amy stiffened.
“How then?”
Drawing a deep breath, Amy fixed Kit with a long-suffering look. “You can tell because of what you feel when a man kisses you.”
Kit frowned.
“You’ve been kissed by a gentleman, haven’t you? I mean, not one of your relatives. What about your London gentlemen—didn’t they?”
It was Kit’s turn to blush. “Some of them,” she admitted.
“Well? What did it feel like?”
Kit grimaced. “One was like kissing a dead fish, and the others were sort of hot wriggling things. They tried to put their tongues in my mouth.” She shuddered expressively. “It was awful!”
Am
y bit her lips, then drew an unsteady breath. “Yes, all right. That’s probably just as well—that means you don’t want to go to bed with any of them.”
“Oh.” Kit’s face cleared. “What should it feel like if I do want to…” She gestured. “You know.”
“Sleep with a man?”
Kit glared. “Yes, damn it! What does it feel like to want a man to make love to you?” She turned onto her back and, dropping her head into the pillows, stared upward. “Take pity on me, Amy, and tell. If you don’t, I’ll probably die ignorant.”
Amy chuckled. “Oh no, you won’t. You’re just in the doldrums, what with your aunts’ machinations and all. You’ll come about and meet your man.”
“But I might not, so just tell me. Please?”
Amy smiled and settled beside Kit. “All right. But you must remember I haven’t had much experience of this either.”
“You’ve had more than me, and it’s only fair to share.”
“And you’ve got to promise you won’t be shocked.”
Kit came up on one elbow and looked into Amy’s face. “You said you didn’t…”
Amy blushed. “I—we haven’t. It’s just that there are…well, preliminaries, that might be a bit more than you expect.”
Kit frowned, then dropped back onto the bed. “Try me.”
“Well—when he kisses you, you should like it for a start. If you’re revolted, then he’s not the man for you.”
“All right. He’s kissed me, and I like it. What then?”
“You should want him to go on kissing you, and you should like it when he puts his tongue in your mouth.”
Kit bent a skeptical look on her friend.
Amy frowned. “It’s true. And you should feel all hot and flushed—like having a fever only nicer. Your knees tend to go weak, but that doesn’t matter because he’ll be holding you. And for some reason, you can’t hear very well when you’re kissing—I don’t know why. It’s just as well to remember that.”
“Sounds like a disease,” Kit muttered.
Amy ignored her. “Sometimes it’s a bit hard to breathe, but somehow you manage.”
“Wonderful—suffocation as well.”
“He might kiss your eyes and cheeks and ears, too, and then move on to your neck. That’s always nice,”
A distinct purr was slowly infusing itself into Amy’s soft voice; Kit blinked.
“And then,” Amy went on, “depending on how things are going, he might touch your breasts, just gently, sort of squeezing and stroking. It always feels as if my laces are too tight by that stage.”
Kit stared, openmouthed, but Amy was well launched on her subject.
“Soon, my nubbins go all hard and crinkly, which is a rather odd feeling. And then comes the hot flushes.”
“Hot flushes?”
“Mmm. They start in your breasts and move down.”
“Down? Down where?”
“To between your legs. And then—and this is the important bit.” Amy wagged a finger. “If you feel all hot and wet down there, then he’s the man for you. But you’ll know that anyway because all you’ll be thinking about by then is how nice it would feel if only he’d come into you.”
Aghast, Kit stared. “It sounds positively dreadful.”
“Oh, Kit.” Amy threw her a commiserating glance. “It’s not awful at all.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Thank you for warning me.”
Kit lay silent, staring at the ceiling. Her one brush with love hadn’t been anything like that. From Amy’s description, it was clear that she, Kit, had never been touched by love. Feeling as if she’d succeeded in understanding some particularly difficult point that had eluded her for years, Kit shook her head. “I can’t see myself getting hot and wet for any man. But then, I’m obviously not destined for love at all.”
“You can’t say that.”
Kit lifted a haughty brow, but Amy was not to be gainsaid.
“You can’t just decide you’re not susceptible. With the right man, you won’t be able to help yourself. It’s just because you’re…innocent of love that you say so.”
Kit’s eyes widened. “Innocent? Did I tell you I lost my innocence one fine summer evening on my Uncle Frederick’s terrace?”
Amy gaped.
Kit shook her head. “Not physically. But I found out what most men think of love that night. I grant your George may be different—there are exceptions to every rule. But I’ve learned that it’s women who fall in love and men who take advantage of our weakness. I’ve no intention of succumbing.”
“What happened on your uncle’s terrace?”
Kit grimaced. “I was eighteen. Can you remember what eighteen felt like? I suppose I’d started to get over leaving Cranmer. My uncles and aunts had already been urging me to marry. Then, miraculously, I found myself in love. Or so I thought.” Kit paused, eyes fixed on the ceiling, then she drew a deep breath. “He was beautiful—a captain of guards, tall and handsome. Lord George Belville, the second son of a duke. He said he loved me. I was so happy, Amy. I don’t think I can explain what it felt like, to have someone who really cared about me again. I was…oh—as you are now. Over the moon with joy. My aunts gave a ball, and Belville said he’d use the opportunity to ask my uncle for my hand. They disappeared into the library midway through the evening. I was so excited, I couldn’t bear not knowing what was being said. So I slipped out on the small terrace and listened outside the library windows. What I heard—” Her voice broke. She drew another breath and forged on. “All I heard was them laughing at me.”
Amy’s hand found hers amid the bedcovers; Kit barely noticed. “It was all deliberate. They’d presented me with four suitors up till then, all much older men, none particularly attractive. My aunts had decided I was too much of a romantic—tainted with the wildness of my father’s and mother’s blood was the way they put it—to accept such eminently suitable alliances. So they’d searched out Belville. He was as ambitious as they were. He was destined for some position in military affairs, something high, organized through his connections. Through our marriage, he’d get the backing of my uncles in furthering his career. They’d get his support in furthering theirs. I was the token to cement their alliance. It was all made perfectly clear while I listened. Belville spoke of how easy it had been to ensnare me.”
Kit stretched her arms out, forcing her long fingers to straighten from the claws they’d curled into. She uttered a hollow laugh. “They were so sure of themselves. When I refused Belville the next day, they couldn’t believe it.”
Abruptly, she sat up, swinging about to face Amy. “After that, I always listened to my so-called suitors’ meetings with my guardians. Most instructive. So, you see, Amy dear, while I may envy you your experience, I know how rare it is. I don’t expect love as you know it to find me. It’s had six years to do so and failed. I’ll soon be well and truly on the shelf.”
Kit saw sympathy in Amy’s brown eyes and, smiling ruefully, shook her head. “There’s no earthly point feeling sorry for me, for I don’t feel the least sorry for myself. What man do you know would allow me the freedom I presently enjoy—to go about as I please, to be myself?”
“But you don’t do anything scandalous.”
“I see no point in inviting the attentions of the gabblemongers, and I would never bring scandal to my grandfather’s name. But I recognize no restrictions beyond those. A husband would expect his wife to behave in accord with certain strictures, to be at home when he was, not riding the sands. He’d expect me to follow his dictates, have my world revolve about him, when I’d be wanting to do something quite different.”
Amy frowned. “I can understand your disillusionment, but we vowed we’d marry for love, remember?”
Kit smiled. “We’d marry for love—or not at all.”
Amy flushed, but, before she could speak, Kit went on, her tone one of acceptance: “You’re marrying for love; I’m not marrying at all.”
“Kit!”
Kit laughed. “Don’t fuss so, my dearest goose. I’m enjoying myself hugely. I promise you—I don’t need love.”
Amy held her tongue but, to her mind, love was the very thing Kit did need to make her whole.
Chapter 3
Kit spent the following two days paying visits to various tenants’ wives, hearing about their families, their troubles, renewing the women’s direct contact with Cranmer Hall, which had lapsed since her grandmother’s death. Yet between the chatter-filled visits, she brooded, surprised at herself yet unable to shake free.
Discussing love with Amy had been a mistake. Ever since, she’d been restless. Until then, Cranmer had seemed the perfect haven. Now, something was missing. She didn’t appreciate the feeling.
Luckily, the next day was too busy for brooding, filled instead with preparations for the dinner Spencer had organized to reintroduce her formally to their neighbors. Kit managed to squeeze in a ride in the afternoon but returned in good time to change.
The guests arrived punctually at eight. Waiting to greet them at the drawing room door, Kit stood beside Spencer, impressive in a silk coat and white knee breeches, his white mane wreathing his proud head. His expression was one of paternal pride, for which Kit knew she was directly responsible.
She’d chosen her gown carefully, rejecting fine muslins and low-cut satins in favor of a delicate creation in aquamarine silk. The free-flowing material did justice to her slender length; the neckline was scooped and scalloped as befitted her age but remained high enough for propriety. The color heightened the glow of her burnished curls and drew attention to the creaminess of her skin.
Her eyes sparkled as she curtsied to the Lord Lieutenant, Lord Marchmont, and his wife, drawing an appreciative look from his lordship.
“Kathryn, my dear, it’s a pleasure to see you back in the fold.”
Kit smiled easily. “Indeed, my lord, it’s a pleasure to be back and meeting old friends.”
Lord Marchmont laughed and tapped her cheek. “Very prettily said, my dear.”
He and his wife moved into the room to make way for the next guests. Kit knew them all. She couldn’t help comparing the real joy she felt in such a simple affair with the boredom she’d found in the elaborate entertainments of the ton.