unconventional little courtship.
A small excursion to the ballroom, the judicial—albeit belated—application of charm, and the presentation of a carefully selected gift had all been delivered with the intention of wrapping Kate around his finger, and his arms around Kate.
The kiss had been carefully thought through as well. Absolute control on his part and the illusion of control on hers, just like in the music room. Things had gone swimmingly in the music room.
What the bloody hell had happened here?
She’d asked him about counting doors, that’s what had happened. She’d started the whole business off by charming him. And then she’d been so genuinely delighted by the watch that he couldn’t help but feel delight with her, instead of with himself for having thought to buy the thing.
And then she’d told him to go kick something.
And then he’d been kissing her.
And then she’d been kissing him. And that was where things had well and truly gone to hell.
He’d been a mere heartbeat away from dragging her to the floor. No, no that wasn’t the trouble. The trouble was that he’d been a mere heartbeat from letting Kate drag him to the floor. If it had been his idea—if he’d had the upper hand—he’d not have broken the kiss.
But it hadn’t been his idea—he hadn’t planned to introduce his future wife to the pleasures of the marriage bed on a ballroom floor—and he hadn’t had the upper hand, because he hadn’t just lost control—he’d handed it to her as neatly as he’d handed her the watch.
Here you are. You’ll find it useful, I think.
Giving Kate control had never been the plan.
He rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest in an effort to alleviate an uncomfortable tightness building there. A tightness he staunchly refused to acknowledge as worry.
Clearly, he needed a better plan. One that could handle the likes of Lady Kate Cole.
A competent strategist recognized when it was time to alter tactics. And any strategist who’d been a heartbeat away from letting a mere slip of a girl drag him to the floor would recognize that a little distance was in order. A day in town for himself, that’s what he needed. A solid day alone to gain perspective and think through his next move. Whit could watch Kate. Mr. Laury as well, from a discreet distance.
By tomorrow night, the discomfort in his chest would be nothing but a bad memory.
Fifteen
Kate tapped her pen against the small writing desk in her room.
A full bar of rest and then…Could she change keys? Would that be too jarring? Perhaps she should bring the oboes in first. No, the cellos—rich and low and hollow. No. No, that was much too maudlin. She wanted pensive, not despairing. Didn’t she? Why couldn’t she hear it?
Maybe it should be the oboes…
“Kate, are you coming?”
Kate looked up to find Mirabelle standing in her door. “Coming? Er…”
“You promised to take tea with Lizzy and me this afternoon.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry, Mirabelle, I lost track of time.”
Mirabelle motioned at the mountains of paper on the desk. “It must be going well, then.”
“It was. I thought it was.” She sighed and set her pen down. “And now it isn’t. It’s the symphony. It’s missing a section right in the middle of the third movement. I cannot seem to work it out.”
“If you’d rather forgo tea and have something brought here, I understand.”
Kate shook her head and stood to follow Mirabelle from the room. “No, I’d rather the tea than a headache. And a break might well do some good.”
As long as that break did not include thinking of Hunter. The day before, she’d done nothing but think about the man, and her strong attachment to him. The phrase “strong attachment” to describe what she felt for him was, to her dismay, all that those hours of thinking had netted her. She hadn’t the foggiest notion what to do about the strong attachment, or even if she should do anything at all—Well, yes, she was certain she should do something, but the what, how, and when—
“Hurry up, girl.” Miss Willory’s strident voice sounded from an open door at the end of the hall.
Mirabelle scowled. “Horrible woman. Abusing some poor maid, no doubt.”
“I’ve not got all day to wait about for you,” Miss Willory snapped.
“You’re not waiting,” a mumbled voice responded. “You’re walking.”
Kate and Mirabelle exchanged glances of alarm. Surely that couldn’t be Lizzy.
Miss Willory stepped into the hall and tossed an angry look over her shoulder. “What did you