A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(9)

They both stared at the horizon, where the oozing egg-yolk sun topped the chalky hills.

She risked a glance at him. “You have nothing to say?”

“Nothing fit for a lady’s hearing.”

She smiled. “But I’m no lady, you see. If I know nothing else of my parentage, I can be certain of that.”

Kate lived in the same rooming house as all the Spindle Cove ladies, and a few were true friends, like Lady Rycliff or Minerva Highwood, lately the new Viscountess Payne. But many others forgot her when they left. In their minds, she fit the same pigeonhole as governesses and companions. She would do for company in a pinch, but only if no one better was available. Sometimes they wrote to her for a while. If their valises were too full, they gave her their cast-off frocks.

She touched the muddied skirt of her pink muslin. Ruined, beyond repair.

At her feet, the puppy had crawled halfway into the milk pail and was happily licking his way back out. Kate reached for the dog, turning him on his back for a playful rub.

“We’re kindred spirits, aren’t we?” she asked the pup. “No proper homes to speak of. No illustrious pedigrees. We’re both a bit funny-looking.”

Corporal Thorne made no attempt to contradict her statement. Kate supposed it was what she deserved, going fishing for compliments in a desert.

“What about you, Corporal Thorne? Where were you raised? Have you any family living?”

He was quiet for an oddly long time, given the straightforward nature of her question.

“Born in Southwark, near London. But I haven’t seen the place in almost twenty years.”

She scanned his face. Despite the gravity in his demeanor, she wouldn’t put him much older than thirty. “You must have left home quite young.”

“Not so young as some.”

“Now that the war is over, you’ve no desire to go back?”

“None.” His gaze caught hers for a moment. “The past is better left behind.”

Point taken, Kate supposed, given the disaster that had been her day. She plucked a long blade of grass and dangled it for the puppy to nip and bat. His long, thin tail whipped back and forth with joy.

“What do you mean to call him?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Patch, I suppose.”

“But that’s horrible. You can’t call him Patch.”

“Why not? He has a patch, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, and that’s exactly why you can’t call him that.” Kate lowered her voice, gathering the pup close and smoothing the splash of rust-colored fur around his right eye. “He’ll be self-conscious. I have a patch, but I shouldn’t like to be named for it. It’s not as though I need a reminder it’s there.”

“This is different. He’s a dog.”

“That doesn’t mean he has no feelings.”

Corporal Thorne made a derisive noise. “He’s a dog.”

“You should call him Rex,” she said, tilting her head. “Or Duke. Or Prince, perhaps.”

His gaze slid sideways. “What about that dog says ‘royalty’ to you?”

“Well, nothing.” Kate set the pup down and watched him scamper through the heather. “But that’s the point. You’ll balance his humble origins by giving him a grand-sounding name. It’s called irony, Corporal Thorne. As if I were to call you ‘Cuddles.’ Or if you were to call me Helen of Troy.”

He paused and frowned. “Who’s Helen of Troy?”

Kate almost betrayed her surprise at his question. Fortunately, she caught herself just in time. She had to remind herself that “corporal” was an enlisted officer’s rank, and most of the army’s enlisted men had only a basic education.

She explained, “Helen of Troy was a queen in Ancient Greece. They called hers the face that could launch a thousand ships. She was so beautiful, every man wanted her. They fought whole wars.”

He was quiet for several moments. “So calling you Helen of . . .”

“Helen of Troy.”

“Right. Helen of Troy.” A small furrow formed between his dark eyebrows. “How would that be ironic?”

She laughed. “Isn’t it obvious? Just look at me.”

“I am looking at you.”

Good heavens. Yes, he was. He was looking at her in the same way he did everything. Intensely, and with quiet force. She could all but feel the muscle in his gaze. It unnerved her.

Out of habit, she raised her fingers to her birthmark, but at the last moment she used them to sweep locks of hair behind her ear.

“You can see for yourself, can’t you? It’s ironic because I’m no legendary beauty. No men are fighting battles over me.” She gave a self-effacing smile. “That would require at least two men to be interested. I’m three-and-twenty years old, and so far there hasn’t even been one.”

“You live in a village of women.”

“Spindle Cove’s not entirely women. There are some men. There’s the blacksmith. And the vicar.”

He dismissed these examples with a gruff sound.

“Well . . . there’s you,” she said.

He went stone still.

So. Now they came to it. She probably shouldn’t have put him on the spot, but then again—he was the one pressing the topic.