Page 65 of Better Love Next Time
She hoped the vicar had sheet music because she had never played a one.
Julian entered the Dolphin prepared to apologize. Dragging Kitty into the loft’s vestibule had been beyond the bounds. As was his wife appearing with a mallet to secure the second deadwood withnails.
Mr. Welles approached him at the stairs with an expression that had Julian worrying someone had died. “My sincere condolences, sir.” The proprietor handed him a letter.
Had someone, in fact, died? He turned right to a lurking maid, and he swore he saw pity in her eyes. “Is my wife well?”
“Indeed, sir,” Mr. Welles answered. “She is.”
Relieved at having excluded half the people he cared about from a sudden tragedy, he started up the stairs. He cared a lot for Kitty, didn’t he? Of course, he did. But Kitty wasn’t half. More like a quarter. His mother, his brother, Georgiana, and Kitty. If he added a few friends, his nieces, Kitty was a mere twelfth.
He regarded the letter and recognizing his father’s script, tore it open.
Julian,
Your brother is ill. We would appreciate your presence in St. James.
~Tindall
His father’s favorite bait. Oliver had been dying since before Julian could remember. Crumpling the letter, he reached his apartments in haste to apologize and halted at the scene thatgreeted him. And the smell. The main room was covered with crates and boxes. His first concern was that Kitty had packed his belongings in retaliation for his harsh treatment.
He strode to a crate and pulled out a handful of ribbon. Atop the side table, squeezed between two candelabras, was a box with spoons, a contraption made of tin, presumably for baking, he wasn’t sure, and a stack of white serviettes. He made a circuit around the room. There was fruit. Yards of fabric, folded and bolted. He picked up a packet of sugar. Lifting a cloth from a crate, a dead fish stared up at him. He jumped back and knocked over another crate. A plucked chicken rolled out on the carpet.
“Katherine!”
“One moment,” she called from her room. The whisper of silk followed, and she appeared at the threshold in a blue silk robe, her long, damp curls pulled over her shoulder and squeezing it dry with a cloth. “Good evening.”
“What is this?”
She looked left and right. “I know what it looks like.”
“It looks like you bought the entire High Street Market.”
“Only one item from each shop or stall.” He snorted, and she hurried on, “Unless I found an item especially appealing.”
Fumbling in the nearest crate, he pulled out a doll made of straw. “What is this?”
“A doll.”
“What need do we have of a doll? Or this?” Swooping down, he brandished the dead chicken by its neck.
“Well, I suppose we would eat it.”
He kicked the rosewood table and toppled a box. A silver mustard pot rolled out. “Oh, you’ll start a fire right here and cook it?”
She stifled a giggle. “I’ve never cooked a chicken, but I can learn.”
Stuffing the chicken into a crate, he wiped his hands on his already filthy breeches and folded his arms. “Explain yourself.”
“Well… I cannot work on ships so I did what I know.”
“Scheming?”
“I concede I am capable.”
He nodded so hard, so long while she crossed the room and retrieved the silver whatnots, he worried his head might fall off and join the chicken. When she bent over, the outline of her buttocks was plain, and when she stood and faced him, he noticed the robe was unbuttoned and she wore only a gauzy shift. And there, her high, firm breasts were plain.
“Julian you are right. We must appear confident, and we must win the hearts of the town. So I patronized?—”
