Page 68 of Tremaine's True Love

“Bread and cheese, your ladyship,” Cook said, passing Nita a thick sandwich. “Would you like more tea?”

“No, thank you.” Nita would like time to change into a more fashionable habit, to tidy her hair, to use her tooth powder again, and have a long, fragrant soak in hot water and scorching memories.

She instead took a bite of bread, cheese, and butter, and headed back out to the stables.

“My lady, your gloves.” Cook hurried after her and passed her the neglected items.

“I have grown forgetful lately,” Nita said. “Thank you.”

Nita stuffed the gloves into her pocket and crossed the garden at a decorous pace, munching her makeshift breakfast. Was this love, this tongue-tied, breathless stupidity? She didn’t care for it, though she cared for Tremaine St. Michael.

Him, she could tell about Addy’s baby and know he’d grasp the situation in all its precariousness. She could wear her old habit around him and not worry that he judged her for looking unfashionable.

Surely that acceptance and caring—and the sweet, stolen kisses—were love too?

“There you are,” George said as his chestnut gelding was led out. “One despaired of seeing you before spring. How is Addy’s baby? It was the baby, wasn’t it? Elsie Nash’s boy has a bad sniffle and children seem to catch everything.”

George was a good brother, though he would not have asked after the baby at the breakfast table.

“The infant should soon be fine, though croup can sound terrifyingly awful. What have you stuffed in those saddlebags?”

“Susannah’s latest haul of books. She’s getting worse, Nita, and I didn’t think she could be any worse.”

A placid bay mare came next, the horse nominally Susannah’s, though the beast was seldom put to use. Mr. St. Michael led her out, the wind whipping at his dark hair.

“Up you go, my lady.” He didn’t position the horse near the ladies’ mounting block, but rather, stood at the mare’s shoulder. When he’d boosted Nita into the saddle, he twitched her skirts over her boots, muddy hems and all.

“I hope you took the time to break your fast?”

He was concerned, as a husband might be concerned. Nita liked that enough to run her fingers over his hair before she donned her gloves.

“I ate. Mount up, Mr. St. Michael, before my poor brother freezes to the saddle.”

Mr. St. Michael didn’t smile, but a hint of mischief danced in his eyes as he patted Nita’s knee.

Abruptly, she grasped exactly what thoughts filled his male mind:If you don’t start calling me by my name, I’ll spend before I’ve so much as kissed you.

Nita repeated that quick stroke over his hair, but this time she sneaked in a light pinch to his earlobe. She would soon be as bad as Nicholas.

Lovely thought, and until she was officially betrothed,Mr. St. Michaelwould have to tolerate proper address from her in public.

George set a brisk pace, which made conversation difficult, and when they arrived at the village, Mr. St. Michael volunteered to return Susannah’s books before he stopped at the inn.

“Shall I accompany you?” Nita asked as George took the horses to the livery.

“You shall join George at the apothecary,” Mr. St. Michael said, “where for you, I am sure, hours feel like minutes, as if you were in the land of fairies. When we return to Belle Maison, you will take that soaking bath, won’t you?”

He’d kissed Nita with that question, though nobody’s lips had touched anybody else’s.

“I shall, and take a nap as well. While my dreams were pleasant last night, I could have wished for more time spent in my warm, cozy bed.”

Nita had verbally kissed Mr. St. Michael back, though his smile was mostly in his eyes. “You shall have that time, my lady. All the time you desire.”

He bowed and marched off, full of energy and purpose, and cutting a fine figure in his riding attire.

“Stop gawking,” George said, coming out of the livery and taking Nita by the arm. “Though I admit he’s worth a second look.”

George was the brother closest to Nita in age, and his unconventional attractions had never been a secret to her, nor had they been anything but natural to him.