“Why not?”
“Because your father would have to be a fool to allow his eldest daughter to marry a younger son with no prospects.” He turned around to face his two friends. “I was trained to be a clergyman, though I haven’t a true calling for it, but it’s a gentlemanly profession, and as a clergyman I could eventually take a wife, unlike my brother who chose the army, provided I attain a suitable living. I’m a gentleman and the younger son of a viscount. I’ve three other brothers in line before me, so the likelihood of my inheriting is very slim. I have no money of my own, and I live off the largesse of my friends. What young lady is going to look twice at me? And what father would consider me if she did?”
“But, Iris—”
“I’m not good enough for Iris,” Dalton said flatly.
“You love Iris and yet you’re willing to stand by and say nothing while she makes her coming out? You’re willing to watch while some other man courts her? While some other man proposes?”
Dalton looked Kit in the eye. “Why not? Isn’t that what you’re about to do with Miss Shaughnessy?”
“Not at all,” Kit told them. “I’m going to marry her.”
“What?” Ash asked the question, but both he and Dalton were staring at Kit. “When?”
“Once she’s celebrated her birthday and no longer has to worry about losing her fortune. And if I can wait that long, after the season,” Kit said. “Personally, I don’t care to wait, but Mariah’s mother wanted her to have a London season, and I’m going to do my best to see that she gets the entire thing. Then we’ll cap it off with a wedding.”
“Congratulations, old man!” Dalton was genuinely happy for Kit.
Ash was happy as well, but his happiness for Kit was tempered with his usual caution. “Are you certain she’s the one? You’ve only known her a few days.”
Kit grinned. “I’ve known her much longer than a few days,” he said. “I just didn’t know her name. I’ve carried the memory of her in my heart for the last fourteen years. You see …” Kit related the story of how he and Mariah had first met, of how he had offered to marry her, and how she had accepted, then waited for him to return.
“You gave up eating sweets after that trip to Ireland,” Ash remembered.
“And when you discovered you’d inherited this place, you told us you wanted to come to Ireland to find your destiny.”
Kit nodded. “I think I’ve somehow always understood that she was my destiny.” Like Zeus, he had somehow instinctively recognized his mate.
“Does she know?” Ash asked.
“She’s known since she was six.”
Ash laughed. “A lot has changed since then. Have you asked her to marry you again? As man to woman?”
“Not yet,” Kit told him. “But I will.”
“Hopefully, after you’ve spoken with the squire,” Ash reminded him. “If he is serious about marrying Mariah, things could get nasty, and you don’t want to run the risk of breaking her heart.”
Kit slapped his palm against his forehead. “Bugger me! But so much has changed in the last couple of days that I forgot all about the squire’s claim to Mariah.”
“I’ll wager he hasn’t,” Dalton said wryly.
* * *
His words proved prophetic, for when Ford entered the study fifteen minutes later, he carried a silver salver with two white calling cards on it.
Kit lifted the first calling card off the tray. “Terrence Reardon,” he read.
“The dance master, sir. He arrived a few moments ago. I’ve shown him into the music room to await your arrival.”
Kit frowned. “The music room?” He didn’t want the man wandering about the music room assuming he had the job when Kit fully intended to see the man in action before he hired him. He’d seen a great many dance masters come and go in the past few months—so many, in fact, that his father had finally determined that he and Kit could better teach Iris and Kate how to dance. From that experience Kit had learned that one simply didn’t allow a strange man to waltz into a room and take one’s sisters or one’s loved one into his arms without having had the opportunity to meet and observe the man beforehand. And he had instructed Ford to show him into the morning room before bringing him up to the study. “Why not the morning room?”
“I took the liberty of showing your other visitor into the morning room, my lord.”
Kit picked up the other card and read it aloud. “Sir Nathan Bellamy, Esquire.” He looked up at the butler.
Ford nodded.
“Oh, hell. The squire.”
Dalton glanced over at Kit. “Speak of the devil …”
“And he appears,” Ash concluded.
Chapter Twenty-Three
For evil news rides post, while good news baits.
—JOHN MILTON, 1608–1674
“The earl of Kilgannon,” Ford announced as he opened the doors to the morning room.
The squire stood up and sketched a flawless bow as Kit entered. “My lord.”
“Sir Nathan.” Kit’s mental image of a country squire was a short, squat, and toady sort of fellow who blustered about pretending to be something he was not. One whose lack of looks and social standing garnered him only the barest degree of acceptability.
He expected a middle-aged man with a potbelly, receding hairline, and nose reddened from hard living and drink. What he saw was a middle-aged man whose looks and bearing were nearly equal to his father’s. A man with dark eyes and a handsome, sun-bronzed face who stood as straight and as tall as a lance, without an ounce of spare flesh about his middle and one whose full head of thick, shiny dark hair, graying slightly at the temples, was probably the envy of most fellows his age.
No one, upon seeing this man in a drawing room, would ever mistake him for a country squire. Bellamy looked nothing like a country rustic. He gave the appearance of being urbane in nature and much more refined and important than his standing would indicate.
Kit disliked him on sight.
“I beg your pardon for calling uninvited,” Bellamy began, “but I’ve come on a matter of some importance, as I am certain you are aware.”
“I am.” Kit did not sit or offer the squire a chair, but remained standing, using the advantage his extra inch of height gave him.
“Then you must also know that some months ago, I spoke with the abbess of St. Agnes’s about a matter of the heart regarding Miss Mariah Shaughnessy.”
Kit narrowed his gaze at the choice of words. “A matter of the heart?”
Bellamy smiled.
Kit was disgusted to find that in addition to appearing youthful and handsome, Bellamy still possessed all of his shiny white teeth.
“Indeed, Lord Kilgannon. When one is speaking to a nun about the possibility of marriage to one of her charges, are not all marriages matters of the heart?”
He didn’t like Bellamy’s oily answer any better than he liked his looks or his patronizingly false smile. “What sort of matter is it when one is speaking to a peer of the realm?”
“It is still very much a matter of the heart, but I suppose one must also admit to a certain familial obligation.”
Kit deliberately misunderstood. “I was not aware that you are in any way related to Miss Shaughnessy.”
Bellamy smiled again. “I am not currently related to Miss Shaughnessy in any way but I should like to be, shall we say, related by marriage in the near future?”
“How near into the future?” Kit asked.
“Within the month.”
“So soon?”
“Not soon at all, Lord Kilgannon. Look closely and you shall see that I am not quite the age my youthful appearance would suggest. I did not rush into the matter of marriage as many of my contemporaries did. I took the time to sow all of my wild oats, preferring to wait until the perfect young lady came of age.”
“And Miss Shaughnessy is that perfect young lady.”
“But of course, my lord, or I would not have proposed such an advantageous alliance—made
such a tender offer of marriage to her guardian.”
“You mean the Mother Superior,” Kit said, deciding to cut to the chase and put an end to the squire’s visit. “Because I have not entertained an offer of alliance—tender, advantageous, or otherwise. Nor would I consider doing so as I cannot help but think that any advantages of such an alliance would be yours. I see no advantages for my ward.”
“She was not your ward when I spoke to the Mother Superior regarding my intentions.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Nonetheless,” the squire continued as if he had not heard Kit’s response, “the Mother Superior accepted my honorable proposal of marriage on Miss Shaughnessy’s behalf.”
“She did not have the authority to do so.”
“I had no way of knowing that when I made my offer,” Bellamy reminded him. “I made the offer and was accepted, and as such, I am entitled to see that my expectations are satisfied.”
“Your expectations do not concern me.”
“The release of her fortune concerns you,” the squire sneered.
At last Kit allowed himself a tiny smile. “A fortune you told the Mother Superior was of no interest to you,” Kit retorted. “Did she hear in error? Or did you deliberately mislead her by lying?”
The squire glared at Kit. “You misinterpret my intent. I said what the Mother Superior wished to hear. The purpose being to reassure her.”
Kit didn’t blink. “You lied.”
“I did,” the squire admitted. “But my intentions were honorable.”
“We have reached the heart of the matter at last,” Kit said. “I submit that you lied to the Mother Superior in order to further your personal aims. And as such, I submit that whether you intended it to or not, your claim holds true. Miss Shaughnessy’s fortune is of no interest to you. Your claim to Miss Shaughnessy is nullified and your presence here no longer required. Good day, Sir Nathan.”
“I have the prior claim to her.” The squire shook with impotent rage. “I will take my case to the courts.”
“Do what you will,” Kit informed him in a dismissive tone. “But Miss Shaughnessy and I have been betrothed to one another since we were children.”
Bellamy smiled then. “Be warned, Lord Kilgannon, you have not heard the last of me.”
“That may be true,” Kit allowed, “but I have heard the last of you today. Ford will show you to the door.”
* * *
“I hope that wasn’t the dance master,” Mariah said moments later when she entered the morning room after returning from mass. “Who?” Kit asked.
She removed her bonnet and looked around for a place to put it, before finally deciding just to hold on to it by its ribbons. “The man I met on the walkway leading up to the front door. The one with the disagreeable look on his face.”
“Oh, that man.” Kit laughed. “No, that wasn’t the dance master. The dance master is waiting for us in the music room. You’re late.”
Mariah smiled. “I stopped in at the rectory. Father Francis insisted that I go show Mrs. Flynn my new dress.” She took a few steps forward, then twirled around in a graceful pirouette. Mariah was wearing the first dress Madame Thierry and her assistants had completed. A day dress made of lightweight blue wool, with matching gloves, bonnet, and half boots.
“And what did Mrs. Flynn have to say about the new addition to your wardrobe?” Kit asked.
“She said I looked like a princess. And that the color of my dress reminded her of the wild bluebells that grow along the cliffside path in the spring.” She waited for Kit to catch up to her, then smiled up at him. “What do you think?”
“I think the color pales in comparison to the blue of your eyes.”
“Truly?”
“Cross my heart.” He did just that, sketching a cross over the left breast pocket of his coat.
His eyes darkened as he looked at her.
“What are you thinking now?” Mariah asked, recognizing his intent, but wanting him to say it.
“I’m wondering where the devil your chaperone is when I need her?”
“In her room, of course. When she’s away from the convent, Sister Mary Beatrix practices strict solitude,” she answered, glancing around to see if any of the household was watching, before she moved closer to him and tilted her face up for a kiss.
“What good is she as a chaperone?”
“She doesn’t need to chaperone,” Mariah answered. “She knows she can trust you.”
“Wonderful,” Kit grumbled.
“Well?” she hinted broadly.
“Well what?”
“We’re alone. Aren’t you going to kiss me?”
Kit obliged. Kissing her quite thoroughly until footsteps sounded outside the morning room. “So much for Sister Mary Beatrix’s misplaced trust.”
“It isn’t misplaced,” Mariah corrected. “You haven’t been trying to kiss her, have you?”
“Not yet,” Kit said, planting a kiss on her nose before releasing her. “But I will if you don’t stop teasing me.”
“Uh-hmm.” Ford appeared in the doorway. “Excuse me, sir, miss. But the dance master and Lord Everleigh and Mr. Mirrant are awaiting Miss Mariah in the music room.”
Kit offered Mariah his elbow.
She put her hand on his arm. “You never did tell me who that man on the front walk was.”
“That was your erstwhile betrothed,” Kit told her. “Sir Nathan Bellamy, Esquire.”
“Ooooh.” She shivered involuntarily.
“Didn’t you find him handsome?” he asked. “Mother Superior apparently did.”
“Mother Superior is welcome to him,” Mariah retorted. “I hope you refused him.”
“He didn’t offer for me,” Kit teased. “He offered for you. But I sent him packing anyway. On your behalf, of course.” He smiled down at her. “I suppose that must have accounted for the disagreeable look on his face.”
* * *
Three quarters of an hour later the dance master, Mr. Terrence Reardon, followed the squire out the front door.
And everyone who’d been present for the dance lesson was glad to be rid of him.
He had turned out to be a shorter, oilier version of the squire. He oozed counterfeit charm from every pore, and his obsequious bowing and scraping set Kit’s and Ash’s teeth on edge.
The domestic employment agency Ford had sought when Kit asked that he secure the services of a dance master and a lady’s maid had sent Mr. Reardon to see His Lordship at Telamor Castle. Since Ash was the highest-ranking lord in the house, Mr. Reardon assumed he was the lord looking to employ him. Kit did nothing to correct that assumption. And neither did anyone else.
Kit simply used Mr. Reardon’s incorrect assumption as an opportunity to observe the dance master and measure his character and his level of competence. Kit sat on a chair beside Dalton behind the pianoforte, watching the dance instruction and turning pages while Dalton played. The first thing he noticed was that Mr. Reardon’s knowledge of the dances currently in vogue in London was limited. His dance steps were sloppy and his instructions impossible to follow. “Begin the steps of the quadrille, Miss Shaughnessy.”
“She can’t begin the steps of the quadrille, Reardon,” Dalton called out from behind the pianoforte. “She doesn’t know how.”
Reardon ignored him. “Music!” he ordered. “Begin, Miss Shaughnessy.”
“I can’t,” she told him. “I don’t know the steps.”
Reardon clucked his tongue, shook his head, rattled off names of the steps, almost barking them at her.
Mariah looked to be on the verge of tears until Ash suggested that the dance master show her how to perform the steps rather than how to recite them.
The dance master showed her the steps once and demanded she repeat them. Mariah tried. But the harder she tried, the worse it became. First she turned the wrong way, then she tripped and stepped on his toes, and the more mistakes she made, the angrier Mr. Reardon became. “You clumsy, ignorant y
oung woman,” he scolded. “Again!”
“No,” Ash interrupted. “Try another dance.”
Mr. Reardon nodded and then clapped his hands and demanded Dalton play a minuet.
Dalton looked at Kit. Kit shook his head and Dalton began a waltz.
“Stop!” he shouted at Dalton who was playing the pianoforte. “I want a minuet. If she cannot do the steps to the quadrille without stepping upon my toes, I will not have her waltzing on them lest we both go tumbling to the floor.”
Kit stood up and started toward the dance master.
Ash took one look at him and attempted to diffuse the tension. “You are the dance master,” he said. “Your job is to teach her, not berate her.”
But Mr. Reardon sealed his own fate. “My lord, I beg your indulgence, but I cannot teach this young woman to dance under these conditions. The accompaniment is amateurish and without the necessary rhythm, and your ward …” He threw up his hands. “I fear she is too far lacking in grace and intelligence to even begin to learn to dance.”
As they watched, tears began to roll down Mariah’s face. She didn’t make a sound. She simply stood there with her head bowed in shame at her inability to master a single dance.
“Kit! Wait!” Ash shouted a warning.
But the warning came too late for the dance master. He executed the only graceful turn he’d made during the lesson and received a fist in the eye for his effort.
“I wanted to do that,” Ash complained.
“What stopped you?” Kit rubbed his knuckles.
“You.” He looked from Kit to the dance master on the floor. “Now what? Once word of this gets around, we aren’t likely to have any more dance masters appear at the door looking for work.”
“We won’t need one,” Kit said grimly. “I’ll do it.”
“You?” Ash raised an eyebrow in query. “When we left Swanslea Park, you swore you’d never dance another step as long as you lived.”
“With Iris or with Kate,” Kit hedged. “I’m willing to make an exception in this case.”
“Oh?” Ash’s eyebrow rose another fraction. “And why is that?”
“This is a matter of defending Mariah’s honor. Now, get him off the floor and onto that chair.” Kit pointed to the chair in question. “He’s going to have the pleasure of watching Mariah dance, and then he’s going to get the devil off my property.”