Always a Lady Page 9

  “No.”

  “My lord,” he added.

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m an earl,” he said. “You address me as Lord Kilgannon, sir, or my lord,” he instructed.

  “No, my lord,” she repeated.

  “Good. Now you may go.”

  “Thank you, Lord Kilgannon.” She turned back toward the door.

  “Miss Shaughnessy?” He called out in a singsong voice.

  “What now?” She let out an exasperated sigh, then caught herself. “What now, sir? Because if you don’t let me out of this room, there may not be any tarts to salvage.”

  Kit could tell by the look on her face that Mariah was dangerously low on patience, but he prodded her anyway. The next few weeks and months were going to be hell for both of them, and he might as well find out where her breaking point was before they began her formal training. “You forgot to curtsy. A lady always acknowledges a person of higher rank by curtsying.”

  “You mean kneel?”

  “Not completely. It’s more like genuflecting.”

  Mariah shook her head. “I genuflect before God and the Blessed Virgin. No one else.”

  Kit grinned. “Think of me as God.”

  His blasphemy took her breath away, and before she could recover from the shock of hearing him compare himself to God, he murmured, “And I’ll do my best to think of you as the Blessed Virgin.”

  * * *

  “Have you lost your mind?” Ash demanded as he and Kit and Dalton sat sipping brandy in the second-floor study three-quarters of an hour before Father Francis was scheduled to arrive for supper.

  “Quite possibly,” Kit murmured.

  Dalton shook his head in disgust. “I thought you came to Ireland to escape that sort of fuss and bother.”

  “I did,” Kit answered.

  “Then, why the devil are you agreeing to launch a girl who isn’t even related to you into society?” Dalton shuddered in mock horror. “Training her to be some other man’s wife. And he, a country squire. Why do that to yourself? It’s bad enough when it’s your sister.”

  “How would you know?” Kit demanded. “You don’t have any sisters.”

  “Well, hell,” Dalton replied. “We ran away from London to escape the chaos Iris’s coming out has created.”

  “That’s not the only reason I chose to come to Ireland,” Kit reminded him. “I also came to claim my inheritance and—”

  “To find his destiny,” Ash added.

  Kit glared at Ash, warning him that now was not the time to mock.

  Ash raised his hands in a sign of surrender. “I’m only quoting you. A sennight ago you threw down the die at Black Hazard’s and announced that you were going to Ireland to find your destiny. Unlike you, Dalton and I aren’t seeking our destiny, we simply came along for the adventure.”

  Dalton drained his glass of brandy, then walked over to the drinks cabinet and helped himself to another. “Here, here!” He lifted his glass in salute to Ash’s unflinching appraisal of Kit’s situation.

  “It’s bad form to insult a man when you’re helping yourself to his liquor, Mirrant,” Kit pointed out.

  “Quite the contrary,” Dalton retorted. “It’s the very best time to insult him.”

  Ash threw back his head and laughed. “What lucky fellows we’ve turned out to be!” He looked at Dalton. “This should teach us to be more careful what we ask for. Kit wanted to claim his inheritance and seek his destiny. We wanted something to relieve the boredom of constant drinking and carousing, and we all got what we wanted.”

  “If he wanted to launch a girl into society, he could have stayed home and helped his mother launch Iris,” Dalton grumbled. “Lady Templeston is one of the calmest, most levelheaded women I know, and Iris’s debut has her in a frazzle.”

  Kit and Ash exchanged knowing glances. Although he had refrained from doing so until now, it came as no surprise to Kit or to Ash that Dalton would reprimand Kit for leaving his mother to handle Iris’s debut on her own. Dalton had wanted adventure, and he had encouraged Kit to seek his, but he also knew that Kit’s mother had wanted Kit to stay home in England, and they knew that eventually, that would prove reason enough for Dalton to take Kit to task. Dalton had been enamored of Kit’s mother since he was in short trousers.

  “You owe me ten pounds,” Ash told Kit.

  “You’re right.” Kit reached into his wallet. “Do you prefer sovereigns or notes?”

  “Notes will do,” Ash answered with a grin. “Gold sovereigns get heavy.”

  Kit removed a ten-pound note and handed it to Ash. “I guessed he would do it sooner.”

  Ash pocketed the money. “No. He was too keen to come along.”

  “Remember to record the payment date and strike through the wager next time you go to White’s,” Kit said. “I don’t want people to think I don’t pay my debts.”

  “What about White’s?” Dalton demanded. “Stop talking around me. What wager?”

  “Before we left London, Ash and I recorded a wager in the betting book at White’s. I wagered ten pounds that we wouldn’t be on the road twenty-four hours before you’d tell me that my mother needed me to stay behind and help with Iris’s debut.”

  Dalton frowned at Ash.

  “I knew it would take a bit longer.” Ash grinned. “Because you consider Swanslea Park as much a refuge as Kit and you were eager to escape the chaos, too.”

  “All I’m saying is that if we’re going to have to put up with a great deal of feminine folderol, we might as well have done so at Swanslea Park,” Dalton defended himself. “Who is Mariah Shaughnessy and what is she to Kit?”

  “She’s my ward,” Kit answered.

  “Since when?”

  “Since I became the earl of Kilgannon and inherited Telamor Castle and all its environs.”

  “You inherited the title a year ago, and you’re just telling us that you have a ward?” Dalton stalked over to the fireplace, then picked up the poker and jabbed at the bed of glowing peat. “You’re packed full of secrets lately.”

  “It appears to come with the title.” Kit set his empty snifter on a side table, then leaned forward in his chair, propped his elbows on his knees, and rested his forehead on his hands. “I actually inherited the title when the old earl died. But I didn’t learn about it until a year ago. And when I left you on the crossroads of the path to meet the priest at the church this morning, I had no idea I had inherited a guardianship to go along with my title and my castle.” He looked over at Dalton. “I had no idea I had a ward until I spoke with Father Francis. And even then, I expected someone with a governess and plaits. Not someone about to make her debut.”

  “Well, expect it or not, wish for it or not, you are her guardian,” Ash said. “You are the earl of Kilgannon, and your obligations to the girl are clear. I’m in.” He turned to Kit and smiled. “Now, we need to come up with a plan to prepare her for her entrance into society.”

  He shouldn’t have been surprised by his friend’s loyalty, but Ash’s willingness to put himself through weeks or months of torture in order to help him discharge his obligation to his ward filled Kit with gratitude. “I don’t know what to say,” Kit began.

  “I do,” Dalton announced. “She’s already betrothed. Marry her off as soon as possible. You don’t owe her anything, and you’re addlepated to think you do. Especially a London season … Because unless she happens to be one’s mother, one’s sister, or one’s mistress, having a female about the house is a damned nuisance. This girl grew up in a convent, for pity’s sake …”

  “Exactly!” Ash snapped his fingers. “For pity’s sake. She grew up orphaned and in a convent, Dalton. Perhaps Kit thinks she deserves a chance to be what she might have been if fate hadn’t treated her so cruelly. What do you say, Mirrant? Are you in or out?”

  “He knows nothing about her …”

  “I know she baked the strawberry tarts you devoured at teatime,” Kit said. And I know she looks like every man’s drea
m come to life.

  That got Dalton’s attention. “What?”

  “She was trained to be a baker.”

  “They taught a lady to bake those heavenly tarts?”

  “She did grow up in a convent, Dalton. Would you have her baking hellish tarts?” Kit drawled.

  Dalton paused to mull it over. “I’ve never heard of a lady of our acquaintance baking anything. Most are hard-pressed to locate the kitchens, much less cook.”

  “Exactly,” Kit said.

  Dalton nodded. “All right. I’ll do whatever I can to help you get the poor lamb ready for the slaughter.”

  Kit raised an eyebrow in surprise. “What makes you think I’m sending a poor lamb to slaughter?”

  Dalton shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s just the image that came to mind. I mean a lady who spends her time baking pastries most likely samples as many pastries as she bakes. I imagine your ward probably resembles Lady Ann Willingham—plain, plump, and shortsighted, with bad teeth and a rather doughy complexion.

  “Am I right?” Dalton grinned at Kit. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “You’ll have the chance to evaluate her and her suitability for presentation to society for yourself,” Kit told him, working to keep his expression bland. “She’s joining us for supper tonight. And since I suspect her wardrobe is severely limited at the moment, I told her we would refrain from dressing.”

  Ash nodded in understanding. A girl from a convent probably owned only one or two dresses and none that would be suitable evening attire.

  Dalton agreed. “It would be much simpler if your ward had been a boy, but …” Dalton clucked his tongue in sympathy. “We’re mates and we’re in this together.”

  Kit’s voice held a note of sincerity that was the very soul of gratitude. “I don’t know how to thank you …”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Ash told him. “Dalton will think of something.”

  “He already has,” Kit said. “He’s come up with the perfect answer.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’ll send her to Swanslea Park. She can receive her instruction along with Iris.” Kit grinned, proud of himself for realizing the solution to the problem was there all along.

  Dalton shook his head. “I’ll wager you ten that Lord Templeston says no.”

  “I’ll take that bet,” Ash said.

  “Kit?” Dalton asked.

  “You’re on.”

  Chapter Ten

  Manners are of more importance than laws … Manners

  are what vex or soothe, corrupt or purify, exalt or debase,

  barbarize or refine us, by a constant, steady, uniform,

  insensible operation, like that of the air we breathe in.

  —EDMUND BURKE, 1729–1797

  Mariah paused in the doorway of the vast dining hall. The massive oak table was covered in white damask linen, four large, silver candelabra, and three floral centerpieces. Built to comfortably seat one hundred and fifty guests, the table was set for six and held more knives, forks, spoons, crystal, and china than Mariah had ever seen.

  How would she ever learn what went with what? She took a step backward and seriously considered retreating to her room when Lord Kilgannon looked up and beckoned her forward. “Miss Shaughnessy.”

  He was standing on the far side of the dining room near the fireplace. Three other gentlemen stood beside him. Mariah heard enough of the conversation to know that she appeared to have interrupted a lively political debate. They turned to look at her as Lord Kilgannon spoke her name, and Mariah was relieved to discover that Father Francis was among them.

  Lord Kilgannon crossed the room in a half dozen long strides. He bowed politely as he stood before her, paused for a moment or two, then offered Mariah his elbow.

  Unsure what to do next, Mariah hesitated.

  “May I?” Lord Kilgannon asked as he reached for her hand.

  She nodded her agreement, and Kit gently tucked her ice-cold hand into the curve of his arm. Once again a jolt of awareness shot through him. He had been correct in his assumption that her wardrobe was limited. She was without gloves, and she wore the same black dress she had worn earlier. The white bib apron was gone, and she had washed the smear of flour and cinnamon from her face, and repinned her hair, but those were the only changes. “Did you come down to supper alone? Where’s Sister Mary Beatrix? Isn’t she joining us?”

  Mariah shook her head. “Sister sends her regrets, but thought that her presence was unnecessary. She said that she is”—Mariah paused, searching for the right phrase—“unaccustomed to male company and prefers to dine in the solitude of her room.” Sister Mary B. had actually said that, except for Father Francis, she could not abide male company while she ate, but there was no need for Lord Kilgannon to know that.

  Kit stared at Mariah. “Your tact is admirable, but there’s no need for you to soften the sting for me.” He smiled down at her. “I met with Sister Mary Beatrix shortly after my meeting with you and she left no doubt of her opinion of men in general and Englishmen like myself in particular.” Kit frowned at the memory of his brief meeting with Sister Mary Beatrix. He had expected a gentle, matronly woman, and he’d been presented with something else entirely. He had no doubt that the nun could be gentle and matronly with Mariah or the other residents of the convent, but she clearly did not approve of men—particularly young, idle men bereft of Godliness or a sense of purpose. Sister Mary Beatrix hadn’t wasted a moment on niceties. She had looked him right in the eye and gotten right to the point in letting Kit know where he stood. The nun had delivered a message of eternal damnation of his soul if he so much as looked at Mariah in an improper manner.

  Kit had barely gotten a word in before Sister Mary Beatrix had turned her back on him and walked away. After threatening him with the same fate that had befallen Peter Abelard, she had, Kit supposed, considered her duty as a chaperone completed.

  “I’m sure Sister meant no disrespect,” Mariah replied.

  “On the contrary.” He gave Mariah a crooked smile. “She treated me like the idle rich heretic ne’er-do-well she considers me to be. But however much she disapproves of my religion, my gender, or me personally, she is here as your chaperone, and as long as she performs her duty, she will be a welcome member of my household and accorded the respect her position affords her. Tomorrow morning I will make certain Sister Mary Beatrix understands that unmarried ladies of good families are not sent downstairs to dine with a roomful of unmarried gentlemen because, except for Father Francis, the chaperone can’t abide male company at the supper table.”

  “How did you know?” Mariah looked at him as if she thought he could read her mind.

  “I happened to pass by your room while Sister Mary Beatrix was expressing her opinion. Rather loudly,” Kit explained. “I overheard it quite clearly through the door.”

  Mariah smiled. “She speaks loudly because she’s hard of hearing.”

  Kit suspected Sister Mary Beatrix spoke loudly because she wanted to be overheard and because her advanced age allowed her to express uncensored opinions that she had once been unable to voice. But he wisely kept his opinion to himself.

  “Here we are,” he announced suddenly, and Mariah realized Lord Kilgannon had led her to his supper companions. He released her hand, then turned to her and asked, “Miss Shaughnessy, may I present Lord Everleigh? Lord Everleigh, Miss Shaughnessy.”

  “Miss Shaughnessy.” Ash bowed.

  “L-Lord Everleigh.”

  “May I say that your presence at Telamor Castle is a pleasant surprise?”

  Kit noted the twinkle of devilment in Ash’s eyes and frowned.

  Ash ignored him.

  “Th-thank you, Lord Everleigh, sir,” Mariah stammered.

  Turning toward Dalton, Kit continued the introductions. “And now, Miss Shaughnessy, may I present the Honorable Mr. Mirrant?”

  Mariah managed a polite reply. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mirrant.”

  Dalton
bowed at the waist and would have taken Mariah’s hand in his, but she did not offer it. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Shaughnessy,” he answered as he straightened and looked into her eyes.

  “And I believe you are already well acquainted with Father Francis,” Kit intruded, drawing Mariah’s attention away from Dalton’s subtle, but unsuccessful flirtation.

  “Yes, of course.” She smiled at the priest. “We are very well acquainted. Good evening, Father. I’m glad to see you.”

  “I promised I would come back and see that you were properly settled in and comfortable with the arrangement,” Father Francis reminded her. “And I always keep my promises.” He reached out and caressed her cheek with his palm. “What about you?” he teased. “Did you keep the promise you made to me?”

  “Yes, Father,” Mariah replied. “I baked strawberry tarts.” She glanced at Lord Kilgannon. “I baked a great many strawberry tarts today. Six batches.”

  “Six?” Kit was surprised. It was a wonder she’d found the time to wash her face and repin her hair if she’d spent all afternoon baking.

  “Two batches for teatime and two batches for supper,” she answered.

  “That’s only four batches,” Kit said.

  “There weren’t any left over from tea, so I baked another batch so Father Francis would have some to take back to the rectory.” She looked at Kit. “I hope you don’t mind. You see, the sisters don’t allow the children to eat sweets at the convent, but …”

  “We conspire to spoil them occasionally,” Father Francis said. “Mariah and my housekeeper take turns baking sweets for the rectory, and I do my part by inviting all the children to the rectory on all the major Saints Days.”

  “How many children are there?” Kit asked.

  “Eleven who live in the convent,” Mariah answered.

  “And thirty-seven more in the village,” Father Francis added.

  “So far, you’ve accounted for five of the six batches of tarts you baked today,” Kit said. “What happened to the sixth one?”

  Mariah glanced down at her feet, reluctant to disclose the reason for the sixth batch of tarts. “I baked the last batch to replace the batch that burned when you sent for me to meet you in your study.”