A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)

A wave of laughter rippled through the crowd.

“And considering these infirmities”—the tavern keeper stretched his glass in Thorne’s direction—“who would have thought the corporal could make so wise a choice?” He smiled at Kate. “We’re all terrible fond of you, m’dear. I think I speak for the entire militia when I say—we wouldn’t let you go to anyone less worthy. Or less capable of calling us up on court-martial.”

“Hear hear!”

Everyone laughed and drank, and the collective affection in the room created a knot in Kate’s throat. But it was another emotion that made her chest ache.

Fosbury was right. Over the past year, she’d abused Thorne thoroughly, to his face and behind his back, when he’d done nothing more egregious than ignore her. After tonight, she suspected all that neglect had been his clumsy attempt at chivalry.

Here she was, surrounded by friends—and possibly family—who believed her to be in love with the man. Engaged to marry him. But in reality, she knew she’d treated him ill.

He told her he had no feelings to hurt, but no one could be completely without emotion. And if all Thorne’s brusqueness had goodness beneath . . .

What sort of heart was hidden under all those staunch denials?

She regarded him now: arms crossed, face hard, eyes glazed with ice. He was a living suit of armor. If she listened hard enough, she might even hear him creak as he walked.

He wouldn’t surrender any secrets willingly. If she wanted to know what was truly inside the man, she would have to crack him open to find out. It seemed a dangerous proposition, and a sensible, clever young woman—a “Kate”—would turn and run the other way.

But she wasn’t a “Kate” to him. He’d called her Katie. And Katie was a courageous girl, even in the face of her fears.

Be brave, my Katie.

Yes. She would need to be.

Chapter Ten

“I must say, that’s a true disappointment. He hasn’t any phallus.”

“What?” Kate asked, laughing.

When they’d reached their picnic spot, Harry placed her hands on her hips, clenched her teeth around a cheroot, and regarded the immense green slope a few pastures distant.

“No phallus at all.” She exhaled a puff of smoke. “And here I had such high hopes, considering he’s known as ‘the Long Man’.”

Kate exchanged amused glances with Lark. They both turned to regard the giant outline of a man carved into the chalk hillside. The ancient figure ranged over the entire slope, standing out in white lines against green.

“Ames and I went to see the Cerne Abbas carving in Dorset,” Harry went on. “The giant depicted on their hillside is magnificently pagan. He has a horrific grimace on his face, and he’s waving a big, knobby club in his hand. Not to mention, sporting a monumental erection.”

Lord Drewe frowned. “Really, Harriet. That’s enough discussion of phalluses. I don’t see why you and Ames should even care.”

Harry sent her brother a look. “It’s an artistic appreciation.” She gestured at the ancient carving on the slope. “This one’s just an outline. No facial expression whatsoever. Rather rigid and staid-looking, isn’t he? And confined, locked up between those two lines.”

“I think they’re staffs,” Kate suggested. “So perhaps that’s some consolation. He’s missing the monumental erection, but he does have two impressive staffs.”

Harry took the cheroot from her mouth and gave her a shocked look. “Why, Miss Kate Taylor.”

Kate knew a moment of pure distress. What had she been thinking, to overstep and speak so crudely? The Gramercys were the aristocracy. She was their poor relation at best, and a complete stranger at worst. Just because Harry could make scandalous jokes, that didn’t mean she should do the same.

Harry turned to her brother. “I like her. She can stay.”

“She stays, whether you like her or not.”

“I suppose that’s right,” Harry said. “If amiability were a requirement for inclusion in this family, Bennett should have been handed his permanent exile years ago.”

Kate breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn’t cease marveling at the notion that she might be a part of this. This wild, impolitic, eccentric, creative assortment of individuals. They liked her.

Now, if only Thorne would join in. The pagan figure carved on the distant hillside was a more active participant in the conversation.