A Passionate Endeavor (11 page)

His endurance was staggering, but the task
seemed impossible
.

Well past the time she would have suggested a
rest, he plodded along, with errors and stops aplenty. After one
particularly challenging passage where he had tripped over many
words, he came to a full stop.

“I think we have had enough, don’t you? I
daresay I have demonstrated my superior skills to you, Miss
Kittridge,” he said, a cynical expression on his face.

“I believe we both need a rest from the page.
I am exhausted, and I can tell that you have the headache.”

“Your fatigue must be due to your superior
ability to bite your tongue, Miss Kittridge. I have never been
fortunate enough to have a teacher willing to let me fail alone.
Instead they could not stop themselves from telling me the word I
was trying to decipher. You are a veritable fountain of patience
and kindness.”

Well! That was praise indeed. “I am quite
sure I would not have tried so hard as you have done. You are a
relentless student, sir,” she replied with feeling.

“We shall have to form a mutual admiration
society with a membership limited to two, I daresay,” he said,
giving her a glimpse of his dazzling smile.

He was so very beautiful, she thought for the
hundredth time this past hour or more. She could not come up with a
more appropriate description. How she longed for Byron’s turn of
phrase, or Shelley’s brilliant talents, displayed in the volumes
she had borrowed from the abbey. How could she describe the way his
brown hair fell forward onto his forehead when he bent over the
page? Or the evenness of his profile and his sonorous voice? Or the
feeling she had when his knees, fabric pulled taut over muscle, had
touched her own?

She smiled, finding herself unable to form a
lighthearted retort.

“Has my limited ability frightened you, Miss
Kittridge? Are you going to refuse me another lesson?”

“Of course not. I am gratified you are
willing to return for more torture, my lord,” she said, before
moving her gaze from his neck cloth to his eyes, the color of the
fast rise of grass in the fields.

“I am willing because
you
will be my
teacher.” His intense gaze made her breath quicken.

He stood up from their cramped position
offering his hand to aid her from her seat. She felt her stomach
clench as she watched him bring her hand to his mouth. Warm, full
lips pressed onto the sensitive back of her hand. She felt the
slightest wisp of heated breath on her skin before gooseflesh
covered her arms. He peered down at her and winked beneath half
shuttered eyes.

“Thank you, Miss Kittridge. May I return then
in two days time?”

“I would be honored, my lord,” she said, as
he released her hand. She curtsied to his brief nod.

Charlotte watched him depart from the room,
but would not allow herself to spy on him from the window. Turning,
she noticed he had forgotten his handkerchief. She pressed it to
her face and breathed deeply his masculine scent. At least she
would have this little memento until her conscience would force her
to return it.

She shook her head in annoyance. She would
not play the tragic, longing heroine. The hero would have to return
a measure of feeling other than gratitude for her to justify such
passionate sensibility. And the idea of unrequited love went
against the grain of her practical nature. He had no feeling for
her in the least save for appreciation of her teaching and nursing
abilities. A poor substitute for love, indeed.

She would talk herself out of any tender
feelings she harbored, if it was the last thing she did.

“
For what do we live, but to make sport
for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn
?”

—Pride and Prejudice

FATHER, I am so happy you have been able to
join us,” said Rosamunde.

“Not such a grand feat, my dear, when one
considers I have merely moved a sixteenth of a mile from Wyndhurst
at most, and all of it by way of two very capable footmen,” the
Duke of Cavendish replied with a wan smile. “But I am very glad to
be a part of your picnic.”

“I think it is most foolish of you, Richard.
I shall not forgive you if you become weaker from the exertion. You
are looking too pale by half. But no one consulted me,” Her Grace
said, looking at Nicholas.

“Octavia, I shall be fine—” the duke
said.

“I am, indeed, to blame,” Nicholas
interrupted.

“Nonsense, my son.” The duke patted
Nicholas’s hand.

Nicholas surveyed the gathering on the
manicured middle level of the parterre garden flanking the stone
abbey. The entire family and three houseguests, supplemented by the
Kittridges and the vicar, Mr. Llewellyn, were happily ensconced on
the lengths of cloth laid out under an old oak tree that bordered
the view of the magnificent formal gardens. The scent of roses and
jasmine permeated the air.

Dr. Kittridge fussed about his frail patient
while the two grandmothers had begun a fevered battle to claim the
attentions of the amused and flattered vicar. If his father had had
more vitality, he would have put a stop to the old ladies’
nattering and coy preening of withered flesh. Years ago the duke
had forbidden his mother to have anything further to do with the
vicar, save Sunday sermons. For while the aging Mr. Llewellyn was
the third son of an impoverished earl, he was not to be ever
encouraged to take the place of the much beloved—and long dead—Duke
of Cavendish, Nicholas’s grandfather.

It was a lovely early summer day on one of
the most beautiful estates in all of Christendom, thought Nicholas.
Yet, a distinct feeling of unease filled his mind as well.

“I am certain the young ladies would like a
turn about the garden, Nicholas,” said the duke.

“Oh, my, yes. It would be a Fate Worse than
Death to neglect to exercise our limbs on a day such as this.” Lady
Susan moved to Nicholas’s side and linked her arm with his with
admirable haste.

Rosamunde jumped to his aid. “I think I will
take a turn as well, Brother,” she said with a shrewd smile. “I am
sure Louisa will lend me her arm as yours will be full,” she said
to tease him.

“Miss Kittridge would you and your brother
care to join us too? Edwin?” asked Nicholas.

“Thank you, yes, Lord—” Miss Kittridge
began.

“Oh, yes, Miss Kittridge, you must join us,”
Lady Susan interrupted, her nose held high. “It is only fair that
you be given the chance to rub elbows with us occasionally. Edwin,
do condescend to squire about Nurse Kittridge.” She tightened her
grasp on Nicholas’s arm.

“This will not do. Miss Kittridge, I would be
honored if you would join Lady Susan and me,” Nicholas said.

“I am capable of walking along unaided, but
thank you.” Miss Kittridge turned and hurried away. Lady Susan
tugged his arm, urging Nicholas toward the gardens.

Nicholas shook his head. “That was
unkind.”

“Yes, it was very rude of her.”

“I was not referring to Miss Kittridge.”

“I don’t understand, my lord,” she
replied.

Nicholas looked down at the aura of petite
femininity that graced his arm. Wide, cornflower-blue eyes looked
back at him and fluttered. The white flowers entwined in her pale
blond hair together with her white muslin dress painted a pretty
picture, indeed. She was a very fetching little
devil
in
disguise.

“It is such a lovely time of year to take the
air, is it not, my lord?” she asked.

Ah, they would embark on the safe topic of
the weather—a skill taught to well-bred young ladies early in life.
“If one doesn’t mind the irritating little insects that plague us
all,” he said, swiping at one of the offending gnats.

“Yes, of course, my lord,” she said,
crestfallen.

How Nicholas longed to drop back to take part
in the intelligent conversation behind him. He could hear Rosamunde
engaged in a conversation with Miss Kittridge about the rapid
recovery of her mare Phoenix. Lady Susan propelled him along
despite his injury.

“Do you not think that a folly would look
beautiful at the center of the garden? Just here, surrounded by
rosebushes.” Lady Susan indicated a spot in front of them.

“It might be difficult to enter without
getting a thorn or two.” He looked over his shoulder to find Miss
Kittridge.

When he returned his attention to Lady Susan,
she appeared on the verge of tears. He had to try to be polite,
lest the creature dared to create a scene. “But there is a folly a
mile or so from here, overlooking a lake. It has fallen into
disrepair, however, as it is not a walk that is favored by most of
the family,” he admitted.

“Do you favor it?” she asked tremulously.

“Actually, yes. It was a favorite haunt of
mine in my youth.”

“I should like to see it then Above All
Things,” she said, with a look of rapture.

Nicholas had not failed to note her
disturbing tendency toward the cliché. He glanced once again toward
Miss Kittridge. “I am afraid the shrubbery has grown a bit wild and
difficult to navigate in delicate footwear such as yours,” he
said.

They both looked down at the tiny white satin
tips of her slippers. He looked at her and could almost see the
calculating nature of her mind at work. Would she sacrifice her
shoes in an effort to win him over?

A gleam appeared in her eye. “Perhaps you
could help me over the small stretches of rugged terrain?”

He had underestimated her talents.

“Lady Susan, I could not bear to mar a single
flounce on your gown. I will not hear of it. We must not leave our
guests at any rate,” he said, smiling at her. “I could not steal
the brightest flower from their midst now, could I?” He looked into
her eyes and forced himself not to wince at the ridiculous
sentiment.

“No, I suppose you are right. I would not
want the others to be deprived of our superior conversation.”

He bit his tongue to stop from laughing or
making an unsporting remark. “Shall we return to the party, my
dear? You must be quite famished.”

She looked happy to return. The conversation
had been altogether too taxing on her bird-sized brain.

Despite the pain in his leg, he helped all
the ladies, along with the other males in evidence, to the shade of
the ancient tree. He maneuvered a seat between Rosamunde and Miss
Kittridge as the liveried footmen and maid servants brought forth
the picnic fare—cold roast beef and pigeon pie alongside early
artichokes and cheeses of Wiltshire. Conversation lulled during the
consumption of the excellent foodstuff. A few oohs and aahs were
heard at the arrival of the tarts and custard dessert trays.

Miss Kittridge was quiet, as he had noticed
was her way with a group of people. She sat with a graceful curve
to her arched back. Her gray silk dress had been allowed out of its
confinement, he could see, as it was on important occasions such as
this. He smiled, happy to see his sister conversing with her.

James Kittridge soon captured the attention
of Rosamunde, and Miss Kittridge withdrew a bit from the group,
taking a slim volume from her pocket. He focused on her beautiful
lips—the upper crescent so full and inviting. His interest moved to
the little dark freckle under one eye and her chestnut hair falling
a bit from its perch.

For the merest moment, Charlotte looked up
from the page to glimpse at him, then returned her wise gray eyes
to the parchment. He shook his head and moved his glass of wine
away. He must stop staring at her heady features lest he embarrass
her. “And what are you reading, Miss Kittridge?” he asked.

She blushed prettily. “Miss Nichols was kind
enough to lend me a new book she brought down from London—
Mansfield Park
. It is a—novel,” she said, appearing
self-conscious of her admission. “It is by the same author as
Sense and Sensibility
and
Pride and Prejudice
.”

“Ah, you are taken with this writer?”

“Yes, her works are very amusing and
entertaining,” she said softly. “But, my father would not agree. He
does not approve of exposing the mind to the nonsense of
novels.”

“I promise not to reveal your secret, Miss
Kittridge,” he said with a smile. “We all must have our secrets.
And now that I know yours, I will feel more secure in mine’s
safety.”

She arched her fair eyebrow. “You are
stooping to blackmail, I see, sir,” she said, turning a page and
ignoring his gaze. “It is beneath you.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, Miss
Kittridge, you are delightful.”

Edwin moved to sit next to Miss Kittridge and
offered a glass of lemonade to her. “What is this? Did I hear
rightly the mention of blackmail? Do not tell me that my brother
has used you ill in any way, my dear. I could not let that stand,”
he said, smiling to both parties. “Shall I slay the beast for
you?”

Miss Kittridge smiled. “I think not. For then
I would be called to nurse the dragon back to good health. An
unwelcome task, I do assure you, for he is a most uncooperative
patient, as you know.” She turned her gaze on Nicholas. “But there
is a fortitude that is unmatched. I don’t believe I have ever seen
anyone heal so quickly in my life. But I fear he doesn’t reveal the
pain all his vigorous activities cause him.”

Nicholas detested when someone could see
through him.

“Ah, but my brother has never complained
about anything in his entire life,” Edwin offered. “He made it very
difficult for a younger brother to follow in his footsteps.” Edwin
smiled. “And never a false step. He always played by the rule book,
always followed the straight and narrow, and all that—a difficult
act to follow.”

Nicholas sat up straighter, ignoring the pain
in his thigh.