A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)

“Oh, I won’t believe that.” Aunt Marmoset unwrapped another spice drop. “I think he liked you too well, dear. And he made up his mind to stay away.”


Kate looked to Thorne. She found him staring back at her with unnerving intensity.

“Well?” Lark asked him. “Does my aunt have it right?”

Does she? Kate asked him silently.

She didn’t know what answer to read in those ice-blue eyes, but she discerned there was a great deal going on behind them. For a man who claimed to feel nothing . . . the “nothing” went very deep.

“Miss Taylor, are you going to keep our new friends all to yourself?”

Kate shook herself back to the present. Mrs. Highwood stood behind her, Diana and Charlotte in tow.

“Introduce us, dear,” the matron said through a clenched smile.

“Yes, of course.” She rose, and so did the men at the table. “Lord Drewe, Lady Harriet, Lady Lark, and Aunt Marmoset, may I introduce Mrs. Highwood and her daughters, Diana and Charlotte.”

“I have a third daughter,” Mrs. Highwood said loftily, “but she is lately married. To the Viscount Payne of Northumberland.” The older woman turned and made a strange, awkward motion with her fan.

“Congratulations,” Lark said, smiling at the matron and her daughters. “We’ve seen you in the rooming house, but it’s a pleasure to be properly introduced.”

“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Highwood. “What a boon it is to have a family of your caliber in Spindle Cove. We are quite starved for society this summer.” Once again she turned and made the same swoop of her fan.

“Are you swatting a wasp?” asked Aunt Marmoset.

“Oh, no.” Mrs. Highwood flicked an agitated gaze toward the same corner of the room. “It’s nothing. Will you excuse me for just a moment?”

As Kate—and all the Gramercys—looked on, the matron turned away, walked two steps, and hurled her closed fan with such force that it smacked an unsuspecting man on the back of the head.

“Music,” she half growled. “Now.”

The man rubbed his head, offended, but he drew out a fiddle and began to saw a few creaky strains of a dance. Around the tavern, guests came to their feet to clear tables and chairs.

“Oh, look,” said Mrs. Highwood, turning back to the Gramercys with an innocent smile. “There’s going to be dancing. What a happy surprise.”

Kate shook her head, dismayed. Of course the woman would do anything in her power to engineer a dance between her eldest daughter and Lord Drewe. But dancing wasn’t a good idea for Diana. The last time she’d danced with a lord in this tavern, Diana had suffered a serious breathing crisis.

“Lord Drewe, I do hope you will honor us with a dance,” said Mrs. Highwood. “Spindle Cove offers no shortage of lovely partners.” She nudged Diana a step forward. “Ahem.”

Kate began to grow truly panicked. She didn’t know how to stop this. Even if he had no interest, Lord Drewe would not embarrass Diana with a refusal. And Diana was too shy and sweet to countermand her mother in company.

She cast a frantic, pleading glance at Thorne. He must understand what was going on. But unlike the others involved, he wasn’t the sort to let etiquette stop him from doing something about it.

Standing tall, he lifted his voice and called to the fiddler. “No dancing. Not tonight.”

The music died a quick, plaintive death. Around the room, guests muttered with discontent. Once again Thorne had single-handedly destroyed the celebratory spirit.

Only Kate knew the true reason, and it wasn’t surliness. Neither was it a lack of empathy.

Quite the opposite. There was good in him. Raw, molten goodness, bubbling deep in his core. But he didn’t possess the charm or manners to control it. It just erupted periodically in volcano fashion, startling anyone who happened to be nearby. Whether they were neighbors he prevented from dancing or teary-eyed spinsters he kissed in fields of heather.

He recalled the color of her hair ribbons on the first day they met. And she’d been blind to his essential nature all this time.

“Of course we can’t have any dancing,” Diana said, restoring peace with a smile. “How could we think of it, when we haven’t yet raised a glass to the happy couple?”

“That’s right,” someone called. “There must be a toast.”

“I’ll say something. I’m the host.” Fosbury raised a glass from behind the bar. “I don’t think I’ll be speaking out of turn to say this betrothal came as quite the surprise to everyone in Spindle Cove.”

Kate glanced at Lord Drewe, worried he’d suspect something was amiss.

Fosbury continued, “For a year, we’ve all been watching these two square off on opposites of every argument. I had it on good authority that Miss Taylor had diagnosed Corporal Thorne as possessing a stone for a heart and having rocks in his head.”