Cecilia Grant - [Blackshear Family 03] (40 page)

For an instant there was silence, broken only by someone’s quick indrawn breath. Rose’s, it must be, since she was sitting somewhere behind and to the left and the sound did seem to have come from there. But this, the matter of the breath and who’d drawn it, was perhaps the least important of all the things that Kate could possibly perceive in this moment.

“Kate?” That was Mama. The single syllable said,
Do you want this?
Because she wouldn’t leave the room—none of the family would—if it meant leaving Kate to a conversation she did not welcome.

The world seemed all but overflowing with people’s kindness and benevolence of late, and still, the goodness of her family, ready to close ranks around her even against so beloved a friend as Mr. Blackshear, sent a new current of warmth through her heart.

“I’d like to hear what Mr. Blackshear has to say.” She’d imagined one day being solicited for an interview by a gentleman of whom she had hopes. She’d practiced, before her mirror, half a dozen different attitudes for granting consent, finally settling on a serene nod and bare hint of a smile such as could heighten his hopes while still keeping him in suspense.

Lord, what a self-satisfied fool she’d been, and how ignorant of what this moment would really be like! Not once had it occurred to her that the man in question might be a near acquaintance who could see through all her artifice. Not once had she suspected she’d no more want to play a part before him than before her family, and that she’d voice her permission in matter-of-fact, conversational tones.

He nodded to each Westbrook as they filed from the room, and when only he and she were left, he crossed over to the sofa and sat next to her, angling himself to face her and laying his arm atop the sofa’s back. “Kate,” he said. He looked at her for a moment; then glanced away to the ceiling and dragged a hand over his face. “I find I don’t know where to begin.”

“It doesn’t matter where you begin. The ending will come out the same.”

“Will it?” He ventured his hand across the space between them, and traced the curve of her ear. She couldn’t suppress a quick, vivid memory of the last occasion on which he’d touched her ear like that, and what she’d been doing at the time.

“It will. I can tell you the ending now if you like.”

He shook his head, smiling, and let his hand fall. “I’m a barrister, remember, and a would-be politician. I’m afraid you have to sit through the speech.”

But there didn’t turn out to be a speech, exactly. He found her hand and wove his fingers with hers, and told her about how he’d gone to call on his brother yesterday. Then he listened while she told about her visit to Louisa. They exchanged accounts of a meeting with Lord Barclay and Papa’s letter from Lord Harringdon, commending one another’s achievements and rejoicing in good fortune. They might almost have had this same conversation with the family present, but for his thumb
tracing circles in her palm, and the undisguised affection with which he looked at her.

“I can’t promise you a grand house, or the life to go with it.” He slid right into this subject, without having proposed or even declared himself in love with her. As though he was eager to skip all the ceremony and go straight to the business of building a shared life. “We’d probably begin in some place comparable to this one, and have to watch our pennies for a few years while I save up to buy land. Would you mind that?”

She wouldn’t. That was the odd thing. She’d dreamed for so long of marrying into a life of consequence and ease, as ladies always did in books. Suddenly that sounded dreary beyond imagining. What did you do all day, once you’d married Mr. Darcy? You could rearrange the paintings at Pemberley only so many times.

If she married Mr. Blackshear, though, she would have a role to play in his success. She could institute such economies as would accelerate his savings and hasten the day he could become a landowner. She could listen as he described his cases, and ask questions that might prepare him for arguing in court. And once he began to make political acquaintances—she might prevail on Louisa to arrange some introductions through her brother—she could meet those men, too, and charm them with her conversation, as a good politician’s wife was supposed to do.

“Where have you gone?” His voice twisted with teasing fondness; he took her chin in his fingers to turn her face to his. “I can see your mind is running like a rabbit ahead of the hounds, but I have no idea where it’s taking you.”

“Don’t laugh, Nick, but I think it might suit me very well to be a political hostess, and in the meantime, to strive with you toward that end.” His face, as he listened, made her want to confide in him for the rest of
her life. “All these years I’ve pursued social status with such industry, and lately it’s become more and more clear to me that I kept at it because I enjoyed the industry, and the challenges, at least as much as I longed for the goal itself.”

“I fear you’d have to let go your hopes of social status indeed, if we married.”

Finally he’d said the word. It shimmered between them, bright as a lake on the hottest day of summer. She smiled, foolishly, and so did he.

“I’ll never entirely let go those hopes. In fact I intend to be the most sought-after political hostess in town. But I can wait.” She’d have Louisa to acknowledge her, after all, and perhaps the pleasure of watching Papa and Lord Harringdon come to be friendly again. “However, I’m not as patient in all things as I am in this. We’ve been left alone for nearly as long as a decent private interview should last, and you have yet to come to the point.”

His mouth twitched with laughter as he unwove his fingers from hers and brought both his hands up to cradle her face. “Believe me, it’s by heroic effort on my part that this interview has remained as decent as it has. And you know the point, imperious chit. I want you to marry me.” His words thrilled her to the core, even if they told her nothing she hadn’t already known. “We’re all wrong for each other and I only love you all the more for that.” His fingertips had roamed to the back of her neck and found her hairline there. The sensation might have seduced her out of her senses, if she hadn’t already been sure of her reply. “You told me you knew before I began how this would end. May I hope it ends in your saying yes?”

“You may hope whatever you like. But this, in fact, is how it ends.” She lifted her hands to his jaw in her turn, and drew him down near, and kissed him.

T
HE WEDDING
breakfast was a beginning. Wedding breakfasts usually were, of course, and indeed this one celebrated the commencement of their married life. However, it also sketched a tentative outline of how their two families would fit together. And how Nick’s own might come to be whole once again.

A beginning called for small steps rather than large, and so they’d been careful to not put Mrs. William Blackshear too near to Kitty or Andrew. If that woman thought to spend the meal in undisturbed solitude, however, well, she’d come to the wrong wedding breakfast for that.

“It occurs to me a woman who is engaged as a gentleman’s mistress enjoys many of the same privileges as would a wife, with the very great advantage of personal independence.” Miss Viola had scarcely touched her food, so engrossed was she in questioning the exotic creature whom it had pleased Fate to bring into the family. Every now and then some snatch of her conversation reached Nick’s ears. “She controls her own money. She owns her clothes and her jewels. She may end the arrangement when it pleases her to do so.”

“True, but so may the gentleman.” Mrs. Blackshear—one
of three Mrs. Blackshears at the table, now that she and Andrew’s wife had been joined in that name by the bride—kept her voice low, darting a glance around to see how far she was overheard. “He’ll generally settle a sum on her, but it might not be enough to provide for the rest of her days. There, a wife has the advantage. And certainly a wife’s children have every advantage over the children of a mistress.”

“Ah. Legitimacy and inheritance. I’d forgot about that.” Miss Viola adjusted her spectacles, frowning as she digested this amendment to her impression of a mistress’s advantages.

Kate, seated at his right, glanced up at him, her merry eyes and tight-pressed lips making clear that she, too, was listening to the highly irregular discussion at the table’s far end.

“You see what a service I’ve done, bringing my connections into your family?” Nick lowered his voice to a murmur. He had a hundred and ten things to murmur to her later, once breakfast was eaten and everyone had gone home. He hadn’t touched her, beyond a kiss or two, in the weeks since the proposal. “I expect Miss Viola will have enough material for a whole new chapter, by the end of this meal.”

“I don’t doubt you’re right. Heaven help us all.” She’d been anxious, he knew, about the introduction to Will and his wife, but when the time came she met them with a well-rehearsed poise, and an underlying graciousness that put him to shame. She would be his ally in putting his family back together. She did have some practice in that pursuit.

He glanced up the table to Mr. Westbrook, speaking to Andrew’s wife, and from there he took a moment to look around at the various conversations that had sprung up, thanks in part to one enjoyable evening in which he and Kate had drawn diagrams and conferred over who should
sit where. Here was Mrs. Westbrook, discussing some aspect of hunting with Kitty’s husband. Here Mr. Mirkwood, who had some fondness for music, bent his head to ask questions of Miss Bea. Directly across the table sat Lord Barclay, dividing his time between Will, on one side, and Miss Smith, on the other—Kate had ideas of promoting a match between the baron and her friend. Stoic Martha sat by distractible Sebastian, neither of them needing much in the way of conversation. And Miss Rose, by his and Kate’s agreement the most generally pleasing and dependable Westbrook, served as family ambassador to Andrew and Kitty.

She’d giggled when they told her she had the very important assignment of creating an excellent impression with the most exacting of the Blackshears, but she’d agreed to do it and appeared to be doing a fine job.

Not present, needless to say, were Lord and Lady Harringdon. They’d sent their congratulations and said Miss Westbrook must bring her husband to meet them one day, and that much was more than Nick had expected.

This was what a beginning looked like. Some prospects would come to fruition, and some would probably not. But for now, he had the luxury of immoderate, unchecked hope.

“Mrs. Blackshear.” It would be a long time before the novelty of so addressing her wore off.

“Yes, Mr. Blackshear?” How many times, over the course of their acquaintance, had he looked at her and thought she’d never been more beautiful? Yet she truly had never looked lovelier than she did today, in a sky blue silk gown that had been a betrothal gift from her aunt and uncle. Nick couldn’t wait to take it off her.

“I’m so glad you didn’t accept my addresses three years ago.”

She laughed, but it was a knowing laugh. She understood
him precisely. Love meant more when it followed upon a thorough knowledge of the other person, flaws as well as graces, small charms as well as large, scandalous connections and all.

For two people so ill-suited, they fit together remarkably well.

“I’m glad I didn’t accept you, too,” she said, and under the table she fit her hand into his.