Lady Silence (8 page)

Katy returned to examining the deep colors in
the carpet.

“
My son is heir to an earldom,”
declared the countess baldly. “He is not for you.”

Even after Lady Moretaine’s long acquaintance
with Katy Snow, she found the sudden lift of girl’s head, the
lightning flash of those green eyes, startling. There was defiance,
fury, outright rejection of her warning.

“
Child,” the countess gasped, “you
cannot think to have him. It is quite impossible, I assure
you.”

Fists clenched, Katy bounced to her feet,
stalking toward a tall, unshuttered window to gaze out at the
lingering twilight.

Their impasse was interrupted by the
colonel’s entrance. Katy turned . . . and was caught in a dizzying
maelstrom of yearning and repulsion. Colonel Farr’s burgundy jacket
lent warmth to skin tanned by weather and lined by cares. His dark
hair gleamed in the lamplight; his lean soldier’s body was
silhouetted in ramrod stiffness as his gaze moved from his mother
to Katy, and back again. He opened his mouth, snapped it
closed.

Until this moment, Damon had refused to
address his mother’s companion as anything but “Katy” or “Snow.”
She was a servant, by God, and that’s the way it would be. But
after the morning’s disaster, either he gave her the sack or he
mended his fences. Or his mama was going to reiterate her intention
of leaving Farr Park.

There was, of course, only one acceptable
course of action.

Damon cleared his throat, pursed his lips,
fidgeted. More like a schoolboy than a proper colonel. Inwardly, he
winced. “Miss Snow,” he said through gritted teeth, “shall I expect
you in the bookroom at the usual time in the morning?”

Katy bobbed a curtsy so slight it was more a
regal incline of her head.

Lady Moretaine drew a gasping breath. Katy,
willing herself not to tremble, stood staring over her employer’s
shoulder, her chin so high she could see nothing but a Canaletto
scene of Venice surrounded by its ornate gilt frame.

With an abrupt nod, Colonel Farr thrust his
hands behind his back and exited the room, adding a curt goodnight
only as he passed beneath the lintel.

Behind him, Katy sank down into the
damask-upholstered armchair. Serena, Lady Moretaine, steepled her
hands before her face and wondered how she could possibly have been
so foolish.

~ * ~

He’d wanted to kiss
her!
Katy, curled up on the chintz-covered window seat
in her bedchamber, hugging herself as she stared blankly at the
darkness outside. Damon Farr—scowling, taciturn master of Farr
Park—had come within a hair’s breadth of pressing his lips to
hers.

And she’d done what Clover had taught her.
And done it well.

Death was preferable to the
agony of remembrance!
Well, perhaps not. But if the
moment could be taken back, she’d gladly do it a thousand times
over. As she’d run from the bookroom in girlish panic, she caught a
glimpse of her employer’s distress. Clover had not warned her that
a knee to that portion of a gentleman’s anatomy was so painful. Too
late, Katy grasped the point.

She sniffed. A tear slid down one cheek, then
the other. Glum and irascible as the man was, he was still Farr
Park’s hero. Her hero. Even with a face seamed by the horrors and
hardships of war, she thought Damon Farr quite the most attractive
man she had ever seen. Including Jesse Wiggs, the second footman,
Elijah Palmer, the steward, and Mr. William Rowley, the local
doctor, all of whom had shown considerable interest in her since
she had blossomed from child to woman. Mr. Rowley, in fact, seized
every opportunity to study what he called her affliction, although,
as Clover had once remarked, the saucy bloke seemed more interested
in examining Katy’s bosom than in looking down her throat.

If she tried very hard to be objective, Katy
supposed, all three men were more handsome than Damon Farr.
Certainly, they were better natured, yet . . . Why, oh, why, had
she not let him kiss her? It would have been a moment to treasure
for the rest of her dull life.

More likely, it would have led to utter
disaster. Disgrace. Dismissal.

But what if . . . what if the opposite were
true? What if he were captivated, charmed out of his sullens? What
if he fell in love, fulfilling all her fantasies? What if . . .
?

Oo-oh!
Katy
winced and clenched her teeth. What if she had inflicted permanent
damage? With Clover Stiles as a friend, Katy was not as ignorant as
most young gentlewomen. Dire thought chased dire thought. What if
he could not . . . ?

Katy clasped her hands before her face and
bowed her head. She prayed for the colonel’s good health, for
wisdom beyond her years. For some way out of the coil she had
fastened round herself. For the future she should have had, instead
of the path, lonely and forlorn, that stretched endlessly before
her.

Unless . . .

Katy heaved a shuddering sigh . . . and
prayed harder.

The following morning, an hour before he must
of necessity make his apologies to Katy Snow, Colonel Farr sat
across from the highly competent Elijah Palmer and attempted to
understand what the steward was telling him. The fact of the matter
was, after Palmer’s eight years at Farr Park—most of them in sole
charge of everything but the running of the household—any
conference the steward might have with his employer was in the
nature of tutor to pupil. Damon gave the man his due. He just
wished Palmer weren’t quite so . . . ah—well-made. Above medium
height, blond, blue-eyed, single, and still well short of forty.
Was it because of Palmer that Katy Snow had had to learn how to
defend herself?

With a wave of his hand, Damon indicated his
acceptance of the steward’s report. In truth, he had not understood
one word in ten. He’d have to have Katy find some books on
agriculture and agrarian reform. Beyond the concept of crop
rotation, he was lost.

“
Tell me about Katy Snow,” said the
colonel.

“
Sir?” A slow blush spread over Elijah
Palmer’s even features.

Good God! At his age a man
should have left blushes behind long since
.

“
A fine young lady, colonel,” declared
Mr. Palmer. “Devoted to Lady Moretaine.”

“
And attractive.”

Mr. Palmer squirmed in his chair before
evidently concluding that honesty was best. “Indeed, sir, an eyeful
she is. Brightens the day for all of us, she does.”

“
And you, in particular?”

Elijah Palmer reached out, carefully closing
the account books he had laid before his employer. “Well, colonel,
I’ll not deny I had thoughts in that direction. If she weren’t a
foundling, I’d never get a chance at such a lady.”

Damn the man!
Palmer looked so expectant, as if the girl were about to be
delivered up to him on a silver platter, tied with a bow. “My
mother is inordinately fond of the chit,” Damon said as if he cared
not a whit what his steward thought of his secretary. “Are there
any other potential suitors I should be aware of?”

“
Rowley, colonel. The doctor. Says he’s
determined to discover what caused her problem and find a way to
cure her, but no one believes a word. Likes to touch her, he does.
Peer down her bosom. Enough to make a man sick, watchin’ him
watchin’ her!”

It was the colonel’s turn to squirm, as he
recalled the number of times he himself had peered at Katy’s fine
bosom, even after she had taken to wearing those flimsy things the
ladies called a fichu. After all, a man would have to be dead not
to—

“
Anyone else?” Damon asked, not
bothering to hide either his annoyance or his sarcasm.

Mr. Palmer nodded. “Jesse, the second
footman. I swear that boy can keep his face straight front while
his eyes roam three hundred degrees. Doctor ought to study
him
, he should! Swivel eyes, that’s
what he’s got. And focused on Katy Snow every chance he
gets.”

Only long years of strict discipline
kept Colonel Farr’s temper in place. The girl was a
veritable
houri
with a swarm
of swains panting at her skirts. Disgusting!

That he should be one of them, even more
so.

He opened his mouth to express his
satisfaction that the girl would not go wanting for a husband. What
came out was something else entirely. “I find her useful,” he told
Elijah Palmer, “so do not expect that I will give her up any time
soon.” Colonel Farr picked up the stack of estate records, handed
them to his steward, effectively ending their interview.

Damon looked up to find Katy Snow standing
five feet from his mahogany desk, looking vastly pleased with
herself and flashing a smile at Palmer as if he were her dearest
friend.

Blasted female. He’d choke before he
apologized to the little minx for discussing her with his steward,
let alone for his attempt on her person.

Hell and damnation, he’d just been caught
telling his steward he found her useful. He might as well have
groveled at her feet. The chit was a menace. She’d bamboozled the
men around her as handily as she had his mother. Damon just wanted
to get his hands on her—although whether to wring her neck or kiss
her senseless, he wasn’t quite certain.

“
Bring me the Chapman,” he snapped,
without so much as a
good
morning
. “We might as well begin where we left
off.”
He could not have said that!
“I beg your pardon,” Damon gasped. And promptly proved that
Elijah Palmer was not the only grown man who could
blush.

He expected her to dash from the room,
as she had the day before. Instead, Katy was holding both hands
over her mouth, shoulders shaking. She was
laughing
?

She was.

In that case, perhaps they
should
begin where they left off.
The colonel’s spirits soared.

But Katy, ever elusive, straightened
her face and marched across the room to the table on which Mapes
had placed the books he had found at the foot of the ladder. But,
as she stacked the Chapman translation in front of him, Damon could
swear her lips were twitching. Which meant their odd relationship
had not been shattered beyond repair. No matter she was the object
of the affections of at least three men with seemingly honorable
intentions,
droit de seigneur
was looking more appealing by the moment.

“
Colonel Farr?” Mapes cleared his
throat, tried again when his employer did not look up from the
Chapman, which Damon found genuinely fascinating, for all its
seventeenth century language. “Colonel, sir? Mr. Rowley, the
doctor, is here.”

“
Is someone ill?” The words were so
quiet and blandly spoken that only Katy Snow, tucked up in a
wingchair in a far corner of the room, caught the menace in
them.

“
No, indeed, colonel. Mr. Rowley—Mr.
William Rowley—is a frequent visitor. He is making what he calls a
study of our Katy. He plans to tell her story in some fancy
doctoring journal.”

Hidden in the wingchair, Katy made a face
that Mrs. Tyner had once described as “sure to curdle milk.”

“
Mr. Rowley is also attempting to help
our Katy find her voice,” Mapes added with what sounded
suspiciously like the hope and pride of a fond parent.

“
Very well, send him in.” Damon’s quick
survey of the bookroom revealed not a sign of Katy Snow, but he
knew quite well she was lurking somewhere about.

Devil it!
Damon had pictured a leering roué of forty-odd years, perhaps
a widower. The young man before him could not be a day over
twenty-five or six. As tall as himself, if a bit gangly. A
confident gaze looked out from eyes that closely matched his warm
brown hair, fashionably cut in one of London’s latest styles. His
clothing was equally well cut
. A dandy, by
God
.

And peering down his Katy’s bosom!

His
Katy.
Blast the girl—she was capturing him as handily as she had all the
others. Far from an innocent child, she had to be an adventuress,
pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes, assuring her continuance in
her snug little nest.

Damon asked the doctor to be seated. After
exchanging the customary greetings to be expected between a wealthy
landowner and a lowly local doctor—which reminded the colonel
strongly of exchanges between himself and fresh-faced officers just
out from England, exuding the confidence of their ancient
lineages—he said, “I understand you have an interest in Katy
Snow.”

“
A unique case,” Rowley declared with
considerable enthusiasm. Far too much, Damon thought sourly. “Most
unique to find a mute who can hear. I have decided to write a paper
about her.”

Damon leaned back in his chair, raised his
voice to be sure it carried to wherever Katy had hidden herself.
“Has it ever occurred to you, Rowley, that Katy Snow might not be a
mute?”

Surprisingly, the doctor’s enthusiasm
brightened still more.. “Ah, then you are aware of the power of
hysteria, colonel? No doubt from your experiences on the
Peninsula?”

That was not at all what he had in
mind, but the Damon would never admit it. “Hysteria, Rowley? I
suppose that
is
a common
female complaint,” he pronounced At any moment, he expected a book
to come flying at him, well-aimed by Katy Snow’s allegedly
hysterical hand.