A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(34)

“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Highwood. “What a boon it is to have a family of your caliber in Spindle Cove. We are quite starved for society this summer.” Once again she turned and made the same swoop of her fan.

“Are you swatting a wasp?” asked Aunt Marmoset.

“Oh, no.” Mrs. Highwood flicked an agitated gaze toward the same corner of the room. “It’s nothing. Will you excuse me for just a moment?”

As Kate—and all the Gramercys—looked on, the matron turned away, walked two steps, and hurled her closed fan with such force that it smacked an unsuspecting man on the back of the head.

“Music,” she half growled. “Now.”

The man rubbed his head, offended, but he drew out a fiddle and began to saw a few creaky strains of a dance. Around the tavern, guests came to their feet to clear tables and chairs.

“Oh, look,” said Mrs. Highwood, turning back to the Gramercys with an innocent smile. “There’s going to be dancing. What a happy surprise.”

Kate shook her head, dismayed. Of course the woman would do anything in her power to engineer a dance between her eldest daughter and Lord Drewe. But dancing wasn’t a good idea for Diana. The last time she’d danced with a lord in this tavern, Diana had suffered a serious breathing crisis.

“Lord Drewe, I do hope you will honor us with a dance,” said Mrs. Highwood. “Spindle Cove offers no shortage of lovely partners.” She nudged Diana a step forward. “Ahem.”

Kate began to grow truly panicked. She didn’t know how to stop this. Even if he had no interest, Lord Drewe would not embarrass Diana with a refusal. And Diana was too shy and sweet to countermand her mother in company.

She cast a frantic, pleading glance at Thorne. He must understand what was going on. But unlike the others involved, he wasn’t the sort to let etiquette stop him from doing something about it.

Standing tall, he lifted his voice and called to the fiddler. “No dancing. Not tonight.”

The music died a quick, plaintive death. Around the room, guests muttered with discontent. Once again Thorne had single-handedly destroyed the celebratory spirit.

Only Kate knew the true reason, and it wasn’t surliness. Neither was it a lack of empathy.

Quite the opposite. There was good in him. Raw, molten goodness, bubbling deep in his core. But he didn’t possess the charm or manners to control it. It just erupted periodically in volcano fashion, startling anyone who happened to be nearby. Whether they were neighbors he prevented from dancing or teary-eyed spinsters he kissed in fields of heather.

He recalled the color of her hair ribbons on the first day they met. And she’d been blind to his essential nature all this time.

“Of course we can’t have any dancing,” Diana said, restoring peace with a smile. “How could we think of it, when we haven’t yet raised a glass to the happy couple?”

“That’s right,” someone called. “There must be a toast.”

“I’ll say something. I’m the host.” Fosbury raised a glass from behind the bar. “I don’t think I’ll be speaking out of turn to say this betrothal came as quite the surprise to everyone in Spindle Cove.”

Kate glanced at Lord Drewe, worried he’d suspect something was amiss.

Fosbury continued, “For a year, we’ve all been watching these two square off on opposites of every argument. I had it on good authority that Miss Taylor had diagnosed Corporal Thorne as possessing a stone for a heart and having rocks in his head.”

A wave of laughter rippled through the crowd.

“And considering these infirmities”—the tavern keeper stretched his glass in Thorne’s direction—“who would have thought the corporal could make so wise a choice?” He smiled at Kate. “We’re all terrible fond of you, m’dear. I think I speak for the entire militia when I say—we wouldn’t let you go to anyone less worthy. Or less capable of calling us up on court-martial.”

“Hear hear!”

Everyone laughed and drank, and the collective affection in the room created a knot in Kate’s throat. But it was another emotion that made her chest ache.

Fosbury was right. Over the past year, she’d abused Thorne thoroughly, to his face and behind his back, when he’d done nothing more egregious than ignore her. After tonight, she suspected all that neglect had been his clumsy attempt at chivalry.

Here she was, surrounded by friends—and possibly family—who believed her to be in love with the man. Engaged to marry him. But in reality, she knew she’d treated him ill.

He told her he had no feelings to hurt, but no one could be completely without emotion. And if all Thorne’s brusqueness had goodness beneath . . .

What sort of heart was hidden under all those staunch denials?

She regarded him now: arms crossed, face hard, eyes glazed with ice. He was a living suit of armor. If she listened hard enough, she might even hear him creak as he walked.

He wouldn’t surrender any secrets willingly. If she wanted to know what was truly inside the man, she would have to crack him open to find out. It seemed a dangerous proposition, and a sensible, clever young woman—a “Kate”—would turn and run the other way.

But she wasn’t a “Kate” to him. He’d called her Katie. And Katie was a courageous girl, even in the face of her fears.