Page 75 of A Prince Among Pirates
She smiles a little wider as she watches me. “After you left, His Majesty was in such a rush to marry me off to save my reputation that he let me choose for myself,” she says. “I chose Francis Stuart.”
I remember Francis. A plain-looking chap, and a year younger than Kitty, but I recall him following her around like a lost puppy at social gatherings. “Your cousin Francis?” I clarify as I sit across from her.
“Yes.”
“He’s here?”
“He’s hunting with Norfolk and Sandringham.”
“Good time of year for it,” I say. Or so I hear. I have no idea, nor do I care.
“So they say,” she says, and once again I am charmed.
“And you’re here… sneaking into my bedchamber with tea and sandwiches.”
She laughs and sets her teacup down. “My lady’s maid knows the servants’ passages well. She sent for tea for her and me, then led me through to your rooms.”
“Scandalous.”
“Isn’t it just?” she agrees, laughing again.
I am at ease listening to the familiar sound of her laugh. I can remember now a time before I hated her, before my father announced his intent to marry us, when I would flirt with her and sneak into the garden with her at parties to steal a kiss under the moonlight.
Now she sits before me, round with another man’s child, and I love her more than I ever have. Her mere presence in these rooms is the one thing pulling my head above water.
“I’m so glad you came to see me,” I tell her, my voice softening. And then, as I watch her gaze at me, I feel, for the first time, a real sense of regret for abandoning her the way I did. “I wronged you so terribly. You should hate me.”
“Yes, many people have said that to me,” she says with a little nod, but she smiles down at her belly and strokes the delicate silk draped over it. “But I don’t hate you, Kit. I’m happy. I love Francis… and soon I’ll be a mother. I live in this beautiful palace, and after my lying-in, the king has seen fit to gift Francis the dukedom of Cambridge.”
“Well, I suppose I did you a favor, then,” I say, and she laughs again.
“I suppose you did. Where did you go?” she asks. “Is it true you were kidnapped by pirates?”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Nothing quite so dashing,” I say softly.
“Will you tell me about it?”
I lift my teacup and stare into the steam as I consider how much I can safely tell her. I don’t know what happened to theDeliveranceafter I was taken. I don’t even know what happened to Renard after he betrayed me for ten thousand guineas. After he betrayed the crew… and my brave captain.
Damn this lump in my throat.
“I’ll tell you what I can,” I murmur. And after a long, fortifying sip, I set the cup down and brace myself to tell Kitty all that I can manage of my life for the last eight months without sobbing.
Twenty-Seven
At some ungodly hour of the morning, I am awoken by the sun barreling directly into my face. I groan and roll over in the large bed. I try to pull the blankets up over my head, but they are stubbornly resisting.
“My lord,” an unfamiliar voice says. I jump and sit up with a start, looking around the room with wide eyes. A young footman stands beside the bed, holding my quilt hostage in his gloved hands. The room smells of tea and toast—and, blessedly, bacon.
“Your breakfast is here,” he says, motioning towards the center of the room, where the wooden tub was when I fell asleep. Now a small, round coffee table and two wingback chairs sit in front of the fireplace, where a fire crackles invitingly. How have I slept through an entire redecoration of this room? It feels like I lay down only moments ago—and nightmares plagued my dreams so thoroughly, I am sure I did not sleep a wink.
“Ah.” I’m not used to servants waiting on me likethis. At home they serve my father, and I occasionally reap the benefits. Never before have I been served breakfast in my own bedroom. “Thank you.”
I smooth back my hair and realize that at some point in the night I lost the ribbon holding it back. A cursory search yields nothing, so I leave it be and slide out of the bed in my nightshirt, pushing it down to cover my bits and thighs.
Then the footman raises the silk dressing gown, and I hesitate. I’ve never seen a footman dress someone—that’s usually left to the valet. But I suppose the disgraced son of a viscount wouldn’t be assigned his own valet for his house arrest. I realize the only way forward that doesn’t involve humiliating myself is to pretend I am accustomed to being waited on thus.
Once the dressing gown is tied about my waist, I step away from the bed and lift the silver cover from the tray on the little table. Salmon, bacon, an egg cup, and toast sit neatly arranged on the plate, along with a generous helping of butter and honey. I sit and pour myself a cup of tea, adding more sugar than necessary, then lift the cup to my lips and sip it gingerly.
