“You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“Now who is being too kind?” Mary regarded Dahlia for a long moment. “You’ve given up a lot to help Alayne.”
“A few evenings of whist, ” Dahlia said dismissively.
Mary’s expression grew arch. “Oh, I think you gave up much more. It was obvious the night of the poetry reading that Lord Kirk has a decided interest in you. And since then, you’ve spent almost every waking hour assisting poor Alayne.”
Dahlia felt her smile tighten, but she managed to say in an even tone, “Lord Kirk is not interested in me.”
“Are you certain?”
“Very.”
Mary’s eyes narrowed. “Ah. You’ve had a tiff.”
Dahlia started to deny it, but the knowing look in Mary’s eyes made her sigh instead. “We didn’t disagree so much as we realized we have different ideas of how a relationship should progress.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve known Lord Kirk for some time, and words are not his strong point.”
“But the poem—”
“Was recited—nothing more. He doesn’t understand the beauty of it or what it means or—” She clamped her lips closed as she heard the pained tone in her voice. “To quote him, he thinks we’re ‘compatible,’ but that’s all.”
“Oh dear. That’s too bad, for he seemed quite taken with you during the reading.”
“Merely because he feared that if he looked about, he might forget the lines.”
“It seemed as if there was more than that. I wonder . . .” Mary cast a quick glance back at the bed where Miss Stewart now slept. “I daresay you haven’t met Miss Stewart’s parents, because they rarely travel.”
Surprised by the change in subject, Dahlia shook her head. “No, I haven’t. Someone said Mr. Stewart was once a groom.”
“He was one of the best, but opened his own stables and does quite well for himself. I’ve spent many Christmases with them. My own parents are quite
busy and—” She shrugged, some of her smile disappearing. “Fortunately, Miss Stewart and her parents have always welcomed me. Mrs. Stewart is a lovely woman, warm and engaging, but Mr. Stewart is more difficult to get to know. He’s not given to speaking much.”
“That must make things awkward.”
“At times, yes. But over the years, I’ve come to understand him. Now I can think of no man I admire more. Mr. Stewart and Lord Kirk seem very similar to me. Neither likes nor appreciates fashion, neither enjoys the niceties of a waltz nor a well-executed bow, and neither has the least desire to become a romantic ideal.”
“Kirk would rather have his hand cut off.”
“Mr. Stewart is much the same. I once asked Alayne if she’d ever heard her father declare himself to her mother, and she admitted that she hadn’t. Not once.”
“How sad for Mrs. Stewart.”
A look of wonder warmed Mary’s face. “I don’t think she cares. In all of the holidays and summers I’ve spent with the Stewarts, I never once saw Mrs. Stewart get even one drop of rain on her, nor one gust of wind disorder her hair. If it was windy, Mr. Stewart made certain his wife traveled in a closed carriage with the curtains fastened. If it was raining, he held an umbrella over her head, refusing to allow the footman to do it. If the sun shone, he carried her parasol. If she was hungry, he immediately set about organizing
dinner. If she was ill, he called the doctor and then sat beside her until she was better. Everywhere they go, everything they do, he makes certain she’s safe, warm, and well.” Mary’s face held a touch of amazement. “If that’s not love, then what is?”
Dahlia blinked. Up until now, she’d thought all of the shortcomings in her failed relationship with Kirk came from his lack of romantic appreciation. But was Mary right? Was some of the fault hers? Were her expectations unrealistic? At any time, had she taken into account Kirk’s other attributes? Or was she too focused on one thing only: her own desire for romance?
The entire situation was too complicated for her fuzzy mind to understand. Despite her bone-deep weariness, a brisk walk seemed even more appealing. Perhaps she would recover her clarity of thought then.
She smiled at Mary. “Thank you. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
Mary’s return smile was wistful. “One day, I would like to meet a man who wants to hold my umbrella.”
Miss Stewart stirred and then plucked at the blankets. “Is there another pillow? I’d like to sit up.”
Mary hurried to see to the patient’s comfort, and Dahlia took the opportunity to slip away. Back in her own familiar bedchamber, she fetched her pelisse and—after a quick glance outside at the windy, gray day—her cloak, refusing to even look at the inviting bed. With a scone tucked into her pocket from a tray Freya had left for her, Dahlia hurried down to the foyer.
She walked past the ballroom where the great tree sat alone. Draped in silver, it reminded her that her time at the duchess’s was growing shorter. In just a few days, with the remaining guests in attendance, the great Christmas Ball would be held, and then . . . that was it. She would be returning home, older but not any closer to finding what she’d been wanting.
She reached the foyer and smiled at the footman who jumped forward to open the door. Instantly, the bitter wind grabbed her cloak and swirled it about her ankles. She shivered and pulled the hood over her head as she stepped outside, then glanced up at the gray, swirling clouds. She’d definitely make it a quick walk.
Shivering, she tucked her gloved hands into her pockets and, head bent against the wind, she continued on. She’d just turned onto the gravel path that skirted the formal gardens when the creak of a gate caught her attention. She looked up as a man dressed in the black broadcloth suit of a gentleman’s gentleman came out, something hanging over his arm. Dahlia recognized him, as Freya had pointed him out to her once.
Kirk’s valet. I wonder where he’s going?
As she watched, the man hurried down the path to the stable and then entered, a golden spill of light briefly illuminating the cobblestone yard before the door closed.
A valet in the stable. That is odd.
Dahlia found herself walking in that direction, and she soon heard a cacophony of voices raised in excitement. Were the servants having a dance, perhaps? She
tilted her head to one side and listened, but she could hear no music.
As she neared the doorway she could make out a chorus of male voices raised in calls, along with— She frowned. Was that the thump of a fist? Goodness, but it sounded like a prizefight!
Her curiosity as hot as the air was cold, she tiptoed toward the wide doors that were partially ajar. Reaching the doors, she gave a quick glance around, then peeked inside.
A group of men—stable hands and grooms, judging by their clothing—stood in a half circle. In the center a sack of grain hung from the rafter on a thick rope. The valet stood to one side, a robe hung over his arm as he watched a man who was stripped to the waist pummel the hanging bag like a prizefighter, his cloth-wrapped fists slamming into the bag over and over, puffs of wheat dust filtering through the air with each hit. The valet watched intently, occasionally giving curt instructions, as the other men yelled at every especially brutal hit.
Whose groom could he be? His bare back glistened with sweat as he attacked the sack again and again, pummeling it with a fury that made her gasp. He was very fit, his muscles gleaming in the glow of the lamps. Though it was quite unladylike, she admired his physique as he cocked back his muscled arm and threw a hard punch that sent the grain sack reeling away, only to swing back as if in retaliation.
The man pivoted out of the way awkwardly, moving as if his leg were stiff—
Dahlia blinked.
Kirk?
As if he could hear her, he turned to say something to the valet, and his profile confirmed her suspicions.
What was Kirk doing in a stable, feinting and pounding the bag of grain as if his life depended on it? Dahlia could only look . . . and look again, held in place with amazement.
He lifted his fists and a burly man set the bag in motion. Kirk threw another punch at the swinging bag, catching it on one side, which sent it spinning away and then back. Each hit set the bag in motion, which required him to dodge and duck. Then he’d hit it again.
He’d successfully landed dozens of hits when, after a particularly punishing thump, the sack of grain spun wildly about and then hit him in the shoulder.
Dahlia gasped as Kirk went reeling. He staggered to one side, landing on his weak leg. It was all Dahlia could do not to yell for someone to help him.
Can’t they see he is in pain?
A groom started to move toward him, but Kirk’s valet grabbed the man’s arm and refused to allow any assistance.
What is that man
doing
?
Kirk wobbled a moment more, and then fell heavily to the ground. The other men fell quiet as he rolled to his side, straw and dirt stuck to his damp skin. But then, as if he’d done it a thousand times before, he grabbed a
nearby stall door and levered himself to his feet, saying something to the men that made them all laugh heartily.
Her heart ached. The grooms didn’t understand how much this cost him, but she did.
He has so much pride. Why is he doing this? What does he have to gain?
Apparently Kirk was done for the day. Leg held stiffly to one side, Kirk found a small stool and limped to it, and then sat down. He rubbed his leg with both hands, his face damp with sweat and pain. The grooms, seeing their entertainment was over, called out a few congratulations and then wandered off to attend to their duties, leaving the two men alone near the door.
Dahlia wished she could hear them, but she was too far away. She stepped back from the stable doors and looked around. A large shuttered window was latched a bit farther down; perhaps she could hear better there. Holding her cape about her, the wind whipping her skirts around her legs, she made her way to the window and peered through the wide cracks between the shutters.
“Ye did verrah weel, me lor’.” The valet lifted a bucket of water that sat nearby and handed it to Kirk.
“Thanks. As you warned, it hurts like hell, but it’s getting more flexible.” Kirk lifted the bucket and poured the water over his head.
Dahlia’s mouth went dry as the water flowed over Kirk’s head to his muscled shoulders and back. She remembered the feel of those muscles under her fingers, the warmth of that skin— She shivered with
something other than cold and leaned closer to the window.
“Och, ye did verrah, verrah weel today, me lor’. Ye should be proud.”
“I’ll be prouder when I can move quickly enough to keep from getting knocked down.” He accepted a small hand towel from the valet and wiped his face. As he did so, the valet moved and the lantern bathed Kirk’s body in gold light.
Dahlia found herself leaning forward, her face almost pressed to the shutters. Her gaze traveled over Kirk’s broad back to where his water-soaked britches clung so lovingly to his muscular bottom and thighs, an odd breathlessness holding her in its thrall. Suddenly, it seemed very unfortunate that their encounter in the billiards room hadn’t been long enough for more exploring.
The valet pulled a larger towel from where it had been hanging over the edge of a stable door and handed it to his master. “How’s the pain, me lor’? Less than yesterday?”
“Some. The hot wraps you put on it last night helped.” Kirk dried his hair, shoulders, and arms. “Although it still feels as if someone stuck it with a hot knife.”
“Aye, but look at how ye were dodgin’ and divin’. Ye couldna do neither two weeks ago.”
“True. My leg is much more limber. Though the work is painful, it’ll be worth it. ‘
Optimum quad premium:
That is best, which is first.’ ”
“An’ ye wish t’ be first?”
“I already was. Now I just have to stay there.”
What does that mean?
Dahlia pressed closer to the shuttered window.
Why is he putting himself through this?
A stable boy led a large bay right in front of the window, blocking Dahlia’s view, so she moved two windows down. She could still see, but she couldn’t hear a word now.
Perhaps Kirk wishes to ride again.
Dahlia watched as the valet placed the robe over Kirk’s shoulders and they began to talk earnestly, looking at the swinging bag of wheat. The entire time, Kirk continued to rub his knee.
She frowned. What was he thinking, engaging in an activity that put so much pressure upon his leg? But Kirk’s expression held her. Though he winced when he stood and put weight on his leg, he also had a pleased glow to his face.
Kirk pulled on his robe, the silk clinging to his damp skin. When he tied the belt around his narrow waist, the robe outlined every delectable muscle. Dahlia’s heart thudded an extra beat, her breasts tingling as she imagined peeling Kirk’s silk robe from his shoulders, of kissing his broad chest, of stroking every bit of his muscled frame and—
She caught her unruly imagination, her blood heated nigh until boiling even though her teeth were nearly chattering.
For all of his flaws, he’s a magnificent-looking man. But it’s more than that. He’s intelligent,
quick-witted, painfully honest, and sensual in ways I’ve never imagined. It’s no wonder I care for him. He’s—
She blinked.
I do care for him. And . . . even more than care. I think I
love
him.
She pressed her hands to her suddenly pounding head.
But I can’t love him—not when he merely thinks of me as compatible. I can’t be the only one who loves.
Her thoughts jumbled, she blindly turned from the window.
I need to think, to understand how this happened.
Her throat tight, she strode up the path toward the moors.
From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
And now the weather has turned. What else can possibly go wrong? Oh, wretched Christmas Ball! I had such hopes . . .
* * *
Cane in hand, Kirk strode from the stables, the icy wind stealing his breath. His progress should have cheered him, but since his argument with Dahlia he’d been miserable. And not just a little, but thoroughly, deeply, troublingly so.