“Yes! It’s the most wonderful thing!” Amy gripped Kit’s fingers, her eyes shining. “First him—now you. Clearly the gods have decided to be especially kind.”
Amy drew back, holding Kit at arm’s length to study her elegant attire, the short velvet coat, clasped with gold frogs, and the gracefully sweeping velvet skirts. Amy’s brown gaze returned to Kit bobbed curls, and she grimaced. “Drat! You make me feel positively dowdy. I don’t know whether I’ll introduce you to George after all.”
Kit laughed and drew Amy’s arm through hers. “Fear not. I’ve no designs on your fiance—very likely he’ll be either terrified or disapproving of my wild ways.” They started for the house.
“George,” Amy declared, “is utterly sensible. I’m sure you’ll approve of each other. But I’m dying of curiosity. Why are you back? And why didn’t you write and warn me?”
Kit smiled. “It’s a long story. Perhaps I should meet your mother first, then maybe we can find a nice quiet nook?”
Amy nodded; arm in arm, they entered the house. Lady Gresham, a motherly woman who ruled her household with a firm but benevolent hand, had always had a soft spot for Kit. She insisted the girls take tea with her but, beyond extracting the information that Kit was still unbetrothed, made no effort to learn more of her recent past.
Eventually released, Amy and Kit took refuge in Amy’s bedchamber. Settled in the billows of the bed, Kit smiled. She and Amy had been closer than sisters since the age of six; six years’ separation, bridged by letters, hadn’t dinted their easy familiarity.
At Amy’s prompting, Kit recounted the tale of her aunts’ machinations and how they’d contrived to hold her for six long years. “If it hadn’t been for my cousins, I’m sure their persuasions to marry would have been a great deal more drastic. Once, they locked me in my room for two days, until Geoffrey appeared on the doorstep and insisted on seeing me.” Kit grimaced. “After that, they were reduced to nagging. But when they wheeled in the earl of Roberts, I decided enough was enough. The man was old enough to be my father!” Kit frowned. “And he was altogether…not nice,” she ended lamely. “After that, my aunts finally conceded defeat and declared me unmarriageable. So I was allowed to come home—I knew Gran’pa would at least give me houseroom.”
Amy sent her a stern look. “He was heartbroken when you left. I did tell you.”
Kit’s eyes clouded, violet hazed with grey. “I know, but my aunts were very clever.” A short silence fell; Kit broke it with a sigh. “So now I’m finished with London and with men. I can live very happily without either.”
Amy frowned. “Is it wise to go that far? After all, who knows what delicious gentleman might be lurking around the next bend in your road?”
“Just as long as he stays out of my road, I’ll be satisfied.”
“Oh, Kit. Not all men are old dodderers or fops. Some are quite personable. Like George.”
With a “Humph,” Kit turned on her stomach and propped her chin in her hands. “Enough of my affairs. Tell me about this George of yours.”
George, it transpired, was the only son of the Smeatons of Smeaton Hall, located some way beyond Gresham Manor. He was twelve years Kit’s senior; she could not recall meeting either him or his parents before.
“It’s reassuring knowing I’ll not be too far away,” Amy concluded. “We must have you and your grandfather over for dinner and introduce you to George and his parents.”
Noting the happiness shining in Amy’s face, Kit agreed with what enthusiasm she could. It was obvious to the meanest intelligence that Amy was head over heels in love with George, and that soon Kit would lose her best friend to matrimony. Amy chattered on; eventually, a frown tugging at her brows, Kit broke into her narrative. “Amy,why do you want to marry?”
“Why?” The question stopped Amy in her tracks. Then, realizing Kit meant the question literally, she marshaled her thoughts. “Because I love George and want to be with him for the rest of my life.” She looked hopefully at Kit, willing her to understand.
Kit stared back, violet eyes intent. “You want to marry him because you love him?” When Amy nodded, she asked: “What’s love feel like?”
Brow furrowed, Amy considered. “Well,” she began, “you know all about the…the act, don’t you?”
“Of course I know about that.” They were both country bred—such matters were inescapable facts of country life.
“But what’s that got to do with love?”
“Well,” Amy continued, “when you love a man you want to…do that with him.”
Kit frowned. “Do you really want to do that with your George?”
Blushing furiously, Amy nodded.
Kit’s brows rose, then she shrugged. “It seems such a peculiar undertaking—so undignified, if you know what I mean.”
Amy choked.
“But how do you know you want to do that with George?” Kit focused on Amy’s face. “You haven’t, have you?”
“Of course I haven’t!” Amy stiffened.
“How then?”