Chapter Six

L ieutenant Sampson was waiting for Quinton when he was admitted to Mrs. Dove Lyon's private room. "Ah, your lordship, I hear congratulations are in order."

His arms felt like they had lead weights tied to them. "Thank you, lieutenant." He met Mrs. Dove-Lyon's direct gaze. "I would have done anything to win Lady Catherine's hand. Did you design the challenge intending for me to fail?"

"The challenge would have been difficult for any man," she replied, "though one would think a former lieutenant in the king's navy would have no trouble with heights or climbing. Clearly giving you the advantage."

"Let's have a look at that shoulder," Sampson said. "Do you need help removing the sling or your shirt?"

"Nay." The moment Quinton tried to lift his arm, pain shot through the injured joint. "Apparently I was wrong. I could use your assistance."

The physician helped him untie the sling and slip off his shirt, then examined the swelling around his shoulder. "Once I put the bone back in place, your lordship, we'll immobilize your arm. The muscles need to heal. Further damage could shred one of the muscles or tendons. I don't want to risk your losing the use of your arm."

Quinton sighed. "I hadn't thought I'd be adding to the list of limbs that no longer worked properly." He lifted his gaze to that of the veiled proprietress and added, "Lady Catherine is worth fighting for. Though I am not certain she will want a broken-down sailor."

"I hardly think that will be an issue, your lordship," she replied. "Correct me if I am wrong, but did you not stress you were interested in a marriage of convenience, specifically one in name only?"

Bloody hell, the widow was right. "That was before—"

Mrs. Dove-Lyon interrupted, "As you did not notify me of any change in your desires, I continued with what had been agreed upon. As it happens, Lady Catherine is looking for the same—a marriage in name only."

Quinton stared at the Black Widow. The woman knew how he felt about Lady Catherine. Such a marriage had been what he wanted initially, but that was before the masked ball, when he had been captivated by the dark-haired beauty he rescued. Should he take the chance that he could convince Lady Catherine to change her mind? Would he spend the rest of his life fighting to keep his distance from the courageous woman who already held his heart in her hands?

Ice slid through his veins. He was forgetting the reasons that had him insisting on his original arrangement with the widow: his leg and his age. Bloody hell, Lady Catherine was more than a decade younger than him. What else could he possibly offer her but a marriage in name alone? The earldom? His new title did include a town house with a fashionable address in Mayfair, along with a country estate in Sussex. Mayhap that would make him more attractive to her. He could not withhold the truth. Lady Catherine deserved to know.

Quinton sat down carefully, hoping that the sweat that had poured off him had not gotten into the fastenings or hinges of his wooden leg. The physician moved closer, and Quinton shifted and moved his leg out of the way. The ominous creak had his gut clenching, but neither Sampson nor Mrs. Dove-Lyon seemed to notice.

"Thank you for giving me a second chance, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I will be forever in your debt."

The Black Widow merely inclined her head. He did not expect more than that after he'd nearly made an enemy of her the last time he was in this room.

Sampson asked, "Do you wish us to move to another room, Mrs. Dove-Lyon?"

"Not on my account. I believe it will be in my best interest, as well as Lady Catherine's, for me to remain. She will need to know if any permanent damage has been done to her prospective bridegroom during the challenge for her hand."

"Very well. I believe I will require Titan's assistance realigning the earl's shoulder."

Quinton donned a neutral expression. He knew the various ways to force a shoulder back into place and did not relish submitting to any of them without a healthy dose of rum.

Titan entered the room. "Which method you will be using, lieutenant? I am more than familiar with a few."

"Given the extreme physical exertion his lordship just endured, I will not attempt the method where I use my heel beneath his armpit. Though I will not discount it as a second option. If you would stand behind his lordship and place one hand just above his elbow…"

The wolf moved into place.

"Your lordship, bend your arm at the elbow and hold it against your torso. Titan will brace one hand above your elbow and grab hold of your forearm with his other hand."

Quinton prayed this method would work—and quickly!

"At my nod, I'll lift and manipulate the joint until I feel it go back into place." The physician nodded to Titan first, Quinton second. "Ready, your lordship?"

Quinton was fully prepared to endure what needed to be done, until he recalled the last time he had had his shoulder realigned…though he was lying on his back then. "Do either of you have a flask handy?"

Titan grinned. "Aye. I have rum."

Sampson nodded. "I have whiskey."

"And I have an excellent brandy," Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. "Which would your lordship prefer?"

"Rum, thank you."

Titan handed his flask over, and Quinton took a healthy sip. The rum reminded him of the barrels of liquor they had had aboard ship. It was not smooth, but it lit a fire in his empty belly.

Sampson waited until Quinton handed the flask back to the wolf. "Now then, let's begin, your lordship, and we'll have you put back together in no time." Turning to Titan, he cautioned, "Mind you do not bump into his lordship's wooden leg."

Quinton glared at his physician, who ignored him.

The procedure took less time than it did when he last dislocated his shoulder, no doubt due to the method…and the squall hellbent on sending them to the depths of the ocean. Rendering aid when the ship was being tossed about was always a challenge.

"I'm going to place your arm in a sling, and will caution you to refrain from using it while your shoulder heals."

"My valet Reeves will no doubt hound me to keep my arm immobilized."

"Good man, Reeves," Sampson remarked.

"Aye," Quinton agreed.

"After what I understand you went through facing this challenge"—the physician paused to frown at Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who ignored the look—"I recommend soaking in a hot tub. But I insist that you have someone help you in and out of the tub. I cannot stress enough—"

"The danger to my shoulder, should I ignore your warning. Thank you for your concern and your expertise, Lieutenant Sampson."

The physician nodded. "I recommend refraining from any strenuous exercise for the next forty-eight hours."

Quinton had other plans, but did not bother to illuminate the physician. It all depended on the lady's agreement.

"While I am here, let's have another look at your hands to see how much damage you inflicted on them this time."

Mrs. Dove-Lyon rang for the supplies the doctor asked for, while Quinton called upon his reserves of strength. He had not been this exhausted since returning from battle, confined to a hospital bed. After the lieutenant had treated and wrapped Quinton's abused hands, he thanked the doctor, refused the offer of laudanum, and promised to send for him immediately should he develop an infection in his hands, a fever, or if the pain in his shoulder did not begin to abate.

He was surprised when a tray with a bowl of hearty stew and a plate of buttered bread arrived as the physician was leaving. Quinton inhaled the savory aroma and smiled at his benefactress. "Thank you, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I had not realized that I was hungry."

She had the servant place the tray on the side table near him. "I assumed you would be after facing those two challenges. Do you need help eating, your lordship?"

"No thank you, I can manage."

"Enjoy your meal, while I meet with Lady Catherine."

Quinton paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. He set it back in the bowl and asked, "What do you plan to tell her?"

The veiled proprietress paused before the door. "Is there something you wish to tell her yourself?"

"Aye. I prefer to be the one to tell her about my prosthesis and shoulder injury. The bandages on my hands should be apparent."

"Very well, see that you do."

"Thank you."

By the time he finished the meal, his limbs were not as heavy, and his head had cleared. He was ready to meet the woman he would marry. During his years in the Royal Navy, Quinton had learned it was best to meet problems and difficult situations head-on when they occurred, handling them immediately. After his witnessing the one situation where she'd been accosted, she seemed to be stout of heart, but Quinton was not certain how she would handle the news he must share with her.

He guessed he would find out when she saw his appearance now that he had met and won the challenges for her hand. Would it come as a shock to her? Would she refuse to marry him because he had lost half of his leg during battle? He would not have the answers he sought until they had a conversation and he shared the truth with her. The question was, should he do so immediately after being introduced, or wait until after they'd had a chance to get to know one another better, if only briefly? He was undecided…a first for him.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon was beaming when she swept into the room a short while later. "Lady Catherine is anxious to meet you, your lordship."

He wondered if the lady in question was more interested in meeting his title—Earl Stansbury—or Quinton, the man. Whatever her reaction, he would not show any emotion.

Lady Kit stared at the closed door, jumping at any sound that came from the other side. Her anticipation, and the interminable wait to meet the man who had won the challenges, had built to the point of madness. She would finally meet the auburn-haired man who had captured her interest, and her heart. Something about his presence called to her. Kit felt safe when he was near, such an odd thing to note about the man she would marry. Had this been a marriage arranged by her father, she would have met the man a few times during the course of the Season and danced with him—but never more than three dances at any of the balls they attended, and never without her mother as chaperone. Warned by her father to never speak her mind, she could not imagine how much more she would have known about any man her father had agreed to…if he had lived and had a hand in the arrangement.

Life did not always go according to plan. Her father died and Mum collapsed immediately afterward, and had taken to her bed with one symptom after another that baffled the steady stream of physicians that followed. Without Father's sister Aunt Sybil stepping in to help when their situation was so desperate, Kit had no idea what they would have done. Very likely ended up on Fleet Street. Fortunately, they had not, and her aunt had had the wherewithal to seek out Mrs. Dove-Lyon's matchmaking services. The assistance of the Black Widow of Whitehall was essential if Kit had been to marry before her twenty-first birthday.

Drawing in a breath and slowly exhaling, Kit murmured, "I have obviously lost what little is left of my senses." Mayhap she should confess her faults to the earl right away, to get it over with. He may refuse to marry her once he found out she had little knowledge or inclination to run any household, let alone what was required to run an earl's! She'd spent as many hours as possible in the stables, until she turned eighteen and weathered the storm of her first Season and half of the next. It had been cut short when her father died and her mother took to her bed. Though no one asked Kit, she suspected Mum suffered from a broken heart. No medicine, tonic, or wise woman's potion would cure what ailed her.

Should Kit tell his lordship the only time she had ever used a needle was to repair a bridle, and the only painting she had done was when she was younger and helped paint the exterior of the new stables…much to her father's delight and her mother's dismay?

Probably best not to mention sewing or painting, then. She brightened. She could carry a tune, though she preferred to sing to the newborn foals, puppies, and lambs rather than entertain a roomful of stiff-necked, irritating people she couldn't care less about.

She had no idea what she should do. Just when she thought she'd go mad, she remembered her aunt and Mrs. Dove-Lyon discussing a marriage in name only. Mayhap she could stay at the earl's estate in the country—surely he would have one—while he stayed in London. That way if they found they were not as compatible as they'd hoped, they could keep out of one another's way and make their marriage work as so many other arranged marriages had.

But how would she be able to dismiss the man who had been at the forefront of her thoughts for weeks? His height and muscular physique…the width of his shoulders? His handsome face and intense gray eyes? How could she stay away from him, when every fiber of her being was attracted to the man?

Another unwelcome thought plagued her: what about an heir? Was he responsible for his brother's children? She thought she remembered hearing about the tragic death of the previous earl's wife, and their stillborn son.

"He would need an heir and a spare?" And just how would that fit into their marriage in name only? He must have made allowances for an heir, or why else would he insist on a marriage in name only? What would she do if he changed his mind and pushed to consummate their marriage? After achieving his goal, would he keep his distance and then never approach her bedchamber again?

Her head began to pound as the difficulties and topics they needed to discuss filled her head. Would his country estate be large enough that she would be consigned to a separate wing? Pressing the back of one hand to her forehead, she prayed for strength. There were far too many questions, all of them unanswerable until she had a chance to speak with the earl. A dull ache began to throb behind her eyes. It was going to be a difficult conversation at best.

The single knock on the door startled her. She looked up as Mrs. Dove-Lyon entered the room, followed by the broad-shouldered man who had appeared in her dreams every night as of late. His firm jaw was set, and he wasn't smiling, which could indicate one of two things—he was in pain, or angry about something.

He strode into the private room where she had been waiting, the slight hitch in his gait more pronounced. His gaze unerringly sought hers, and for a moment, she glimpsed a soul-deep pain that called out to her, but then it was gone. Had she imagined it?

Had her wits completely gone begging? Of course he was in pain—one arm was in a sling, the side of his face had been scraped raw, and his hands were both bandaged. Just what had he been doing with that grappling hook in the alley to have so many injuries?

Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, "Lady Catherine, may I present Earl Stansbury. Your lordship, Lady Catherine Huntington. We have much to discuss," the widow told them. "I do hate to waste time and prefer to get right to the particulars. Please do be seated, your lordship."

He waited for her to sit before lowering himself into the only straight-backed chair in the room. Kit was perched on the edge of the deep blue and white brocade settee. Mrs. Dove-Lyon chose to sit on the blue settee opposite from her. "You have both indicated that you need to marry immediately and wish for a marriage in name only."

She wondered why the earl's gaze shot to hers when the widow mentioned that. But he turned back to Mrs. Dove-Lyon and inclined his head. The widow shocked Kit when she said, "I am intrigued, your lordship—is it not customary for a peer of the realm to sire an heir and a spare?"

Kit felt her face flush with embarrassment at the widow's indelicate question. The earl, however, did not seem bothered by it. "When we spoke a month ago, my elder brother was still alive. I am quite certain you have heard of his death."

Mrs. Dove-Lyon gave a brief nod, then asked, "Is it true he has no heir?"

The earl's face lost all expression, but Catherine noticed the sorrow in the depths of his eyes. "Aye."

"And your sister-in-law?"

"Died giving birth to their stillborn son."

Kit's heart squeezed at the mention of his loss. "Please accept my condolences, your lordship."

"Thank you, Lady Catherine." He did not go into further detail as to how his brother had died. It appeared that he had no intention of explaining further.

Mrs. Dove Lyon, however, felt the need to ask him, "What happened to your brother?"

"He perished in a carriage accident a fortnight ago."

"My condolences, your lordship."

"Thank you."

The widow turned to Catherine. "Would you care to enlighten the earl as to why you need to marry immediately, Lady Catherine?"

For a moment, Kit was at a complete loss for words, but quickly gathered her composure. She answered as succinctly and truthfully as possible: "According to my father's will, I must marry before my twenty-first birthday or I will forfeit my inheritance."

The earl locked gazes with her. "Is coin that important to you?"

"It has become so recently. My mother is bedridden. Her health has declined since my father's unexpected passing." She wrung her hands, until she noticed what she was doing and clenched them in her lap. "My father had high hopes that I would marry during my first Season…"

She could not finish the statement without feeling responsible for being relegated to join those considered beyond the pale. Her outspokenness on topics best left to others, in particular men, as her father had often reminded her, would be her undoing. Women did not hint at even having knowledge of such topics. The more time she spent on the fringes of entertainments—ballrooms, in particular—the sharper her tongue. She should never have commented on what had been obvious to anyone with eyes in their head—the shoulders of that silly viscount's frockcoat were heavily padded with buckram. From that moment on, she had been labeled an antidote and persona non grata .

As if he sensed her torment, the earl remarked, "The Season can be daunting to navigate from a man's point of view as well, Lady Catherine."

He held her gaze for an uncomfortable amount of time, until her heart began to pound. Every thought flew from her brainbox. The earl was distractingly handsome with his sculpted lips, rugged features, and broad shoulders. And heavens, all that glorious auburn hair!

Mrs. Dove-Lyon made an impatient sound, prompting Kit to respond, "Erm… I beg your pardon for woolgathering. I confess to never considering navigating the Season would be a trial for a gentleman."

"Dancing is not a skill one is born with, nor is wielding a blade or pistol. As with all things, one must practice."

He drew in a breath, and her eyes gravitated toward his impressive shoulders and broad chest…and all she could think of was being held close to the earl's broad chest as they waltzed. Her palms tingled, and she flushed with embarrassment when she realized where her thoughts had wandered off to.

Instead of picking up on what she was thinking—and thank goodness he had not—the earl held up his hand in supplication. "Forgive me, my lady, I had not meant to frighten you. Do you harbor a fear of weapons?"

A giggle escaped, and the earl's frown deepened. She immediately apologized, "I beg your pardon, your lordship. You see, I am an only child, and my father taught me how to ride, wield a foil, and fire his dueling pistol when I was quite young." From the astonished expression on his face, she wished a hole would open in the floor so she could just disappear. Would she ever learn how to converse with a man? "I meant no disrespect."

"None taken, Lady Catherine. I was trying to picture someone as delicate in appearance as yourself facing an opponent with a foil in your hand."

"Father always said if I had to be born female, the very least I could do was to learn to defend myself."

"With a pistol and blade?"

"Yes, as those were the skills he taught me, until…" She trailed off.

"Until?" he urged.

She could not meet his storm-gray eyes, so she kept her gaze lowered when she said, "He died of a lung ailment a few months ago."

"Please accept my condolences."

She lifted her head and found him staring at her. This time warmth filled his gaze, lightening his eyes to a softer gray.

Kit fought to contain the tears stinging the backs of her eyes. Now was definitely not the time to show weakness. "Thank you."

"I believe his lordship is anxious to return to his town house and finalize arrangements for you to be wed on the morrow," Mrs. Dove-Lyon remarked. "I shall leave you two alone to discuss them. Do try to have things wrapped up by the time I return in a quarter of an hour. I will have papers prepared for your signature."

When Mrs. Dove-Lyon rose from the settee, the earl stood and bowed to her.

With the closing of the door, the man's countenance changed completely. Gone was the quiet fellow, and in his stead was a forceful man she did not recognize. This was a man who faced down danger without reaction. Looking at his expression, she had no doubt the rumors of his being fearless in battle were true.

"A quarter of an hour is not much time, Lady Catherine," the earl said. "Shall we get down to the heart of the matter?"

A hint of worry tied her belly in a knot. "And what would that be?"

His eyes locked on hers as he replied, "Whether or not you intend to insist upon a marriage in name only."

Kit's breath caught in her lungs, and she could not draw in any air. Her field of vision grayed around the edges until a strong arm wrapped around her waist and crushed her to a heavily muscled chest.

"Damn and blast, woman. Breathe!"

It was the earl's anger that grounded her, as well as the furious pounding of his heart. Was it more than anger that had his heart racing?

"Did you hear me?" he bellowed, making her ears ring. "You will not faint on me! I have one arm in a sling, my hands ache from climbing that blasted rope, and all I want right now is to have your answer to my question before I return home to my library, where I can sit in front of a roaring fire with a glass of rum."

His warmth seeped into her, relaxing her, until she was able to stop trying to control her breathing and simply let her body take over.

He eased his hold on her when she finally drew in a lungful of air. "Better. You'd best get over your unreasonable fear of me. I will admit that I do not have much patience for women who quiver and quail whenever they hear a loud voice. Have I given you a reason to fear me?"

"No," Kit rasped. Then she pressed her hands firmly against his chest until he let her go. He slid his hand from around her waist to beneath her arm and helped her sit down before returning to his seat. If she lost part of her hearing, she would place the blame squarely at his door.

"Now then, Lady Catherine, getting back to my question before you swooned. Do you still intend for ours to be a marriage in name only?"

Unsure of why he even asked, she answered his question with one of her own. "Why would I have changed my mind?"

The intensity in his expression and the way his eyes darkened to the color of summer thunderclouds had her wondering what in the world the man was thinking. Unease skipped up her spine until he finally answered, "I had no intention of changing mine until the night of the mystère masque . I heard the murmur go through the crowd and turned to see what caused such a stir."

"What did you see, your lordship?"

"You, Lady Catherine."

She had been so rattled by the events that evening that she could not remember. "Did I remember to thank you for coming to my aid?"

"I believe you did, but could not say for certain."

His reply irritated her. Had his actions been without thought, merely a knee-jerk response? "Do you so often rescue women from the attentions of overzealous men that it was commonplace and therefore not worth remembering?"

"Nay. From that moment, you have been firmly lodged in my brain. Mrs. Dove-Lyon will return any moment, and there is another question, more important than the one you are avoiding answering. Would you accept a man who is no longer whole?"

"Emotionally?"

"Nay."

She licked her lips and, before she lost the nerve, said, "I understand you were injured during the Battle of Trafalgar."

His snort indicated impatience and more than a touch of derision.

"Will your injury require my assistance? After we are married, I would of course do whatever I can to aid you. Is that what you meant when you asked if I still intended our marriage to be in name only?"

"Mayhap in part."

"Before I give you my answer, what would the other part be?"

He rose to his feet, and she thought she heard a creaking of leather—a sound she was well familiar with, having spent so much of her time in the stables. The earl stood before her and offered his hand. Unable to look away from the intensity in his gaze, she placed her hand in his and let him draw her to her feet.

He let go of her hand and slipped his arm around her waist for the second time. She lifted her chin and stared into his eyes. He pulled her flush against him, until she felt every bit of muscle that made up the man she had agreed to wed.

His strength was evident, as was his purpose as he lowered his lips until they were a breath away from hers. "Before we go any further, I need to test my theory that you feel more than the obligation to marry me because of the agreement you signed with Lady Dove-Lyon."

Heat radiated off him. His mouth, poised above hers, about to kiss her, had her legs going weak. Clinging to him, she whispered, "How will you do that?"

The earl slid his hand to the middle of her back and brushed his mouth against hers in the barest of touches, yet the gentleness touched her heart. "Will your lips soften beneath mine as I sip from them and satisfy my curiosity to discover if they will taste of honeyed wine or tart, unripe berries?"

Bereft of speech, she answered the only way she could. Lifting to her toes, she pressed her lips to his. A maelstrom of emotion swept through her when he deepened the kiss, and his hold on her. She willingly responded and was soon lost in a world she had only heard whispers of.

Their hearts beat in rhythm until they sounded as one. Head spinning, lips eager for more, she tugged on the hair that touched the collar of his frockcoat to pull him closer. His lips once more hovered over hers.

"My left leg was crushed beneath a thirty-two-pounder gun during the battle… All that is left of it is the thigh from above the knee up."

Tears welled up, but she would never pity this proud warrior who had fought for king, country, and every man, woman, and child in the whole of England. She needed to show her gratitude and gratefulness for his sacrifice. Her older cousin had fought and perished during that naval battle. Kit never had the chance to hug him one last time. She would let this proud naval hero know he was appreciated, not brushed aside and reviled because he had left part of his leg behind when he came home. She brushed the tips of her fingers along his jaw line, lingering over the stubbled face that had probably been cleanly shaven only hours earlier. The earl watched her, but did not outwardly react to her touch.

Kit needed him to understand that she was not faint of heart, did not quail at the sound of loud voices. Earlier she had reacted to the shock of having what had been agreed upon changed at the last minute. It pushed her off balance. She drew in a breath and held her ground. "The leather creaking that I heard, was that part of your prosthesis?"

"Aye. How is it that you recognized the sound?"

She rested her hand on his forearm. "I spent the first seventeen years of my life in the stables."

The expression in his eyes lightened. "You like horses?"

She shook her head. He frowned, and she laughed. "I love horses."

This time his smile reached his eyes. "I have been slowly building my stable at Quinton's Folly—"

"Folly?"

"Aye. My great-grandmother thought my great-grandfather daft to build a replica of the round tower and abbey his ancestors had constructed near the borderlands in the twelfth century on in the wilds of Sussex."

She was entranced watching him brighten with every color of the rainbow when he spoke of Quinton's Folly and his stables.

"I would love nothing more than to spend the rest of my days mucking out stalls and—"

"Out of the question—no wife of mine will muck out stalls."

"But it is part and parcel of what it takes to care for a horse, which is why my father insisted that I learn."

"There are those assigned to the task who are more than willing to earn their living taking care of the horses in the stables at the Folly."

He paused, and the intense expression on his face worried her. Would he change his mind and not want a horse-loving hellion as a bride?

"I want to show you something," he rasped. "Will you trust me?"

The look in his eyes was a combination of resignation and stoicism. "Yes," she whispered.

"Please sit."

"Sit?"

"You said you trusted me."

"I do."

"Catherine…"

"Kit—my friends call me Kit."

He nodded. "Please sit, Kit."

She returned to the settee. He sat across from her, bent forward, and lifted the hem of his pant leg. Kit realized what he was going to do and was not surprised. He wanted to shock her and gauge her reaction. If she could handle the sight of his wooden leg, then mayhap he would still be willing to wed her.

The wooden foot the earl exposed to her was articulated and appeared to be made of hardwood and smoothed to a glossy finish. "It's surprisingly elegant."

The earl snorted. "It's made of wood. How is that elegant?"

She met his questioning gaze and explained, "My mother's dearest friend had an uncle who served in the Royal Navy. He was forced to retire when he was injured. He came home without his natural leg… He had a peg leg in its place. That was more of a rough-hewn bit of wood than what you have, my lord."

Their eyes met again, this time his look was one of wonder, as if he could not believe her responses to be real.

He cleared his throat and asked, "Would you care to see more?"

The door opened, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon stood in the doorway studying them. "Well, it appears as if the two of you have been having an intimate conversation."

"I'd hardly call showing my bride-to-be my wooden foot and ankle intimate."

"What would you call it?" the widow asked.

"An elegant bit of artistry," Kit replied. "The workmanship is astounding, and the wood grain has lovely whorls throughout."

The earl shoved his pant leg down and tugged on his boot.

Kit watched from the corner of her eye and was more than pleased that his eyes lost the look of resignation. In its place was an expression of hope. He rose to his feet, offered his hand to her, and pulled her to his side. His lips were warm against her temple. The barest press of his mouth filled her with longing. There was so much more to this wounded warrior than he chose to show those around him. He was strong—stronger than any man she had ever known. How else would he be willing to bare what he considered his deformity to the woman he had challenged two other suitors for?

"As you both seem to be quite comfortable with one another, it would appear that you have come to an accord, and it would seem you two are ready to sign the documents I have prepared for you."

Mrs. Dove-Lyon walked over to the door, called Titan, and returned to her desk. She laid out the foolscap for the earl and Kit to look over. "Everything has been discussed in our previous meetings. Your signatures will be witnessed by Titan and myself, and will finalize our agreement."

After the earl signed, he handed the quill to Kit, who added her signature.

The widow beamed at them. "Do you have plans to make your debut as a couple at any of the upcoming balls?"

The earl snorted, and Kit began to realize that was part of his everyday conversation with others. He had used the sound not only to disagree with her, but to agree with Mrs. Dove-Lyon. She would have to pay close attention to the earl to learn more of his habits.

"I'm happy to see that you will not have any difficulty becoming used to being married in name only—"

"Oh, but we aren't…" Kit felt her face heat and fell silent, wondering if she had committed an intolerable faux pas by answering for the earl and herself. Mum would have been horrified, Father resigned.

"What my intended is so eager to explain is that we have indeed reached an accord and agreed to marry tomorrow."

"I see." The widow nodded. "A marriage with all of the trimmings."

The earl tightened his arm around Kit's waist and replied, "Aye."

"My felicitations, your lordship, your ladyship. Where will you be residing, in London?"

"Nay, at my family's country residence, Quinton's Folly, where my wife will be able to ride any and all of the excellent horses in my stables."

Kit felt the rumble of his reply, marveling that his chest was so broad, it resonated with vibrations when he spoke. She shivered, and he immediately bent his head and asked, "Are you chilled?"

"Nay, but thank you for your concern."

"It is the very least I can do for the woman who will be my countess on the morrow."

Mrs. Dove-Lyon inclined her head. "Thank you both. It has been interesting, and a pleasure."

The earl bowed to the widow. "My thanks, Mrs. Dove-Lyon."

Kit added, "Thank you for everything, Mrs. Dove-Lyon."

"You are both welcome. I do hate to rush you along, but I have a situation that needs my immediate attention." The widow nodded to Titan, who opened the door with a flourish. "Please show Lady Catherine and the earl to his carriage."

"That won't be necessary," Kit replied. "I have asked our coachman to return for me."

"I explained that that would not be necessary," the widow informed her. "I was certain his lordship would prefer to see you home personally."

"You thought correctly," the earl replied. With his hand beneath Kit's elbow, her future husband-to-be—and not in name only—led her through the Lyon's Den for the last time, and outside to his waiting carriage.