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“as if her heart ached.”
    “All the more reason to cheer her with some waltzes,” Susannah replied. “Might we persuade Mr. St. Michael to stay a few extra days? He has the look of a man who knows what he’s about on the dance floor, and our gatherings never have enough handsome bachelors.”
    Kirsten and Della exchanged a glance that had nothing to do with planning the local assembly, for Susannah had done it again: arrived for innocent reasons at a suggestion that had not-so-innocent possibilities.
    “Nita volunteered to ride to the sheep pastures with him in this weather,” Della said quite casually, “and she was out late last night with Addy Chalmers.”
    “Which you had to mention at breakfast,” Kirsten reminded her.
    “I like Mr. St. Michael,” Susannah said. “He doesn’t put on airs.”
    The gentleman had an odd accent—mostly Scottish with the occasional French elision, which combination would not endear him to Polite Society’s loftiest hostesses. He was in trade, and he had a brusque quality that made Kirsten leery, though Nita could also be quite brusque—as could Kirsten, all too often.
    “You ask him to prolong his stay, Suze,” Della said. “Tell Mr. St. Michael we’re shy a few handsome, dancing bachelors, then have Mr. Nash give you some waltzing lessons.”
    Susannah’s brows drew down, and as the coach clattered from rut to bump to rocky turn, her gaze became sweetly, prettily thoughtful.
    Also determined.
    * * *
     
    “Lovey, if you put fewer cakes on the tray, then the Pontiff of Haddondale might not stay as long.” Nick punctuated this observation with a kiss to his wife’s temple. “Not that I’d encourage my dearest lady to anything approaching ungraciousness.”
    Though, of course, his wife was incapable of ungraciousness. Leah was also incapable of idleness, which was why Nick had had to track her down to his woodworking shop, to which she alone had a spare key.
    “I do wonder how Nita put up with Vicar,” Leah said, glowering at a stack of foolscap on the workbench. “If he didn’t feel compelled to add a line of Scripture to his every observation, he might also be on his way sooner. I fear he aspires to match his son up with our Della, which match you will not approve, Nicholas.”
    Nick added coal to the brazier, because his shop was at the back of the stables, where warmth was at a premium. Leah worked with fingerless gloves, the same as any shopgirl might have when totting up the day’s custom.
    She sat on a high stool, but Nick was tall enough to peer over her shoulder.
    “As my countess wishes, but, lovey-lamb, why are you hiding here?” Nick certainly hid here from time to time, and only Leah would disturb him when he did.
    She tossed down a pencil and leaned against him. “You are so marvelously warm. Where is your coat, Nicholas?”
    “My countess will keep me warm. You’re working on menus.”
    The Countess of Bellefonte nuzzled her husband’s chest. “I hate menus. I hate mutton, I hate soup, I hate fish, I hate that Cook expects me to remember which we ate Tuesday last and in what order, and I hate most of all that, for some reason, one must never serve trifle at the same meal as lobster.”
    This was old business, this jockeying between Leah and the staff she’d inherited upon becoming Nick’s wife. She’d won over the maids and footmen, and Hanford was devoted, but Cook was temperamental and contrary.
    “Shall I have a word with Cook?” Nick dreaded the prospect, though Leah had taken Cook on more than once.
    The countess straightened and tidied her stack of papers. “You shall not. Household matters are not your domain, Nicholas, though I appreciate your willingness to entertain Vicar when he comes snuffling around.”
    His Holiness had a prosperous figure for a man of the cloth, because Nick supported the living generously. Nick put Leah’s menus aside, turned, and hiked himself up onto the bench, so he faced his wife.
    “What was