Page 96 of Better Love Next Time
“Yes, my lord. The fly only skims the water.”
He cast the rod.
She leaned forward to watch the yellow-and-black fluff hop along the water. No fish appeared. “What percentage of time does a fish bite?”
His dark brows flattened. “Percentage?”
“How many number of times, on average, must you cast before catching a fish?”
“Why does this matter?”
“I suppose one would wish to know if they were being successful at their endeavors.”
The earl bent forward so she could see him without the effort of looking up. His eyes flicked to the cross at her neck. “Endeavors, is it?”
“Forgive me.” She didn’t know why she asked for forgiveness, except his question demanded an apology like a screw at her spine.
He chuckled, a razor’s edge to the sound. “My dear Miss Babbington, what have you done which requires forgiveness? That you endeavored to marry my son?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are a sly one, aren’t you?” He withdrew a cigar. Reeds rustled behind her. Footsteps sucked at mud.
The burly man appeared, lighting his lord’s cheroot. His hands were like gauntlets, scars lacing the knuckles.
The sweet, sinister smell unfurled from the fiery end.
Kitty looked to the darkening sky, her heart increasing its pace. The large man had not left the earl’s side.
“My lord, the hour draws late,” she said.
“You are a lovely young woman, Miss Babbington. I can see why Julian chose you. Along with beauty, there is an airof intelligence about you. Pragmatism. Which my son sorely requires.”
She peered through the willow’s branches, up the bank to Clara, spying only the horse’s grey muzzle and the hem of Clara’s petticoat. “I must return home. It has been a pleasure.” She didn’t care what words poured from her mouth. She needed to leave.
Cigar smoke wafted between them. The earl stepped aside, his arm leading a path up the bank. “It has been a pleasure indeed, Miss Babbington.”
“Thank you.” The brutish man refused to move. Kitty skirted him on the water’s edge.
“Cyril,” the earl barked.
A hand seized the back of Kitty’s cloak. Before her mind could account for events, another hand grabbed hold of her hair and shoved her face in the river. Her back strained against the force holding her down. Her lungs emptied of air as her hands flailed in the water.
Julian! Julian help me!
The hand yanked her up, her face inches from the river. Her hair floated in the water around her.
“Miss Babbington,” the earl said coolly. “Do you think I would allow my son to marry a papist whore? Allow our name to be sullied by a Roman slut?”
She gasped for air, every available bit of it, knowing, knowing she was going back to the water.
“M-My lord, I attend the Anglican service.”
“Again, Cyril.”
Cyril thrust her down, farther than before, and held her there longer. She tried not to scream but the inky murk, the growing doubt that she would survive, forced a scream and with it her air. Her eyes squeezed in their sockets. Her lungs begged for her to breathe.
Julian! Oh God, Julian, please!
