Free The Countess's Groom by Emily Larkin Page A

“Toby spoke often of you.”
    “And he spoke often of you.”
    “He did?” He saw something in Miss Chapple’s eyes — a flicker of grief — before she released his hand.
    “He was the best of cousins.” She turned toward the pretty blonde. “May I present Mrs. Dunn? She is my aunt’s nurse-companion.”
    He was shaking hands with Mrs. Dunn when the thump thump of a cane heralded Arthur Strickland’s arrival. Strickland entered the parlor leaning on the ebony cane, an elderly woman on his arm.
    “My sister,” he said, “Lady Marchbank.”
    Lady Marchbank was as cadaver-like as her brother. She was dressed entirely in black, from her black lace cap to the black hem of her gown. A female grim reaper . Edward squashed the thought hastily and bowed. The resemblance between brother and sister was strong: the tall, stooped postures; the long, bony faces; the wrinkles folded into deep, disapproving lines.
    A clock struck six somewhere in the house, a ponderous sound.
    “I should inform you, Mr. Kane, that we dine plainly at Creed Hall,” Strickland announced as the last echo died away. “And for the sake of our digestion, we preserve the strictest silence.”
    …
    Mattie studied Mr. Kane surreptitiously as she ate. Goliath, Toby had called him, and she understood how he’d come by that name. He was an uncommonly large gentleman, taller than she by a good half foot, and solidly built. He looked like he could carry the weight of a coach-and-four on those broad shoulders.
    Mr. Kane had dark hair and a tanned face crossed with pink scars. She knew his age to be thirty. The same age Toby would be if he were alive.
    Mattie’s eyes traced the scars scoring across his brow, bisecting an eyebrow, curving down his cheek, and she stopped at his right ear. Most of it was missing. Her gaze dropped to his hands. They bore scars similar to those on his face. Three fingers were missing on his right hand and one on his left.
    Had his sword been cut from his hand? Did that account for the missing fingers?
    She imagined him weaponless, trying to ward off an attack...
    Her rib cage tightened. Mattie looked away from Mr. Kane’s battered hands and forced herself to think of something else. Outside, rain drummed down. A cold wind leaked through the cracks in the window casement. The clink of cutlery was loud in the silence, the scrape of a knife across a plate, the tiny clatter of fork tines as her uncle speared a piece of boiled mutton.
    What did Mr. Kane think of so silent a meal? Perhaps he was grateful. He didn’t look like a man skilled at small talk, a man who could turn a pretty phrase as easily as he could tie his own shoelaces. He looked like a fighter.
    A fighter who’d lost a battle and had almost died.
    Her gaze crept back to him. Mr. Kane seemed undismayed by the food. I’ll have no sauces in my house , her uncle was fond of announcing. No spices. Food boiled in plain water is all that one requires .
    Pig swill , Toby had called it the last time he’d been home, and he’d gone down to the village inn to eat his dinner. And he had smuggled back a roasted chicken and a plum pie for her afterward.
    Grief tightened Mattie’s throat. She looked down at her plate and blinked back tears. I miss you, Toby .
    …
    After dinner, the ladies retired to the drawing room. Arthur Strickland poured two small measures of port. Edward sat back and braced himself for more questions about Waterloo.
    “When did you return to England?” Strickland asked, sipping his port.
    “Last month.”
    Strickland glanced at Edward’s ear, his hands. “I hadn’t realized that you were so seriously injured.”
    “I wasn’t,” Edward said, not mentioning the broken leg that had kept him immobilized for months. “A friend of mine lost an arm. He contracted fever and almost died. I stayed with him until he was well enough to travel.”
    “Gareth Locke,” Strickland said.
    Edward nodded and tasted the port. Too sweet.
    “Tobias’s