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Kitty finally managed, dragging herself from reverie. “For how long is Mr. Worthmore to remain at your parents’ home?”
    â€œAt least until Twelfth Night. You do not think it will hold off melting until after then, do you? I might avoid meeting him altogether.” The glimmer in Emily’s eyes suggested she was banking on wishes.
    Kitty shook her head. “I haven’t the foggiest idea how to bake bread.”
    â€œNeither do I. But I shall learn.” Emily bared her teeth and bit into the stale slice.
    Heavy steps sounded on the floorboards behind Kitty. She was to have no reprieve of even minutes in which to compose herself. But the man must want breakfast too, the man with a jaw carved of stone that a woman could wish to run her fingertips over, then her lips and tongue, as though he were a salt lick and she a deer.
    She was very foolish.
    He halted behind her and the lapping heat deep inside her resumed with astounding vigor. She pressed it away even as something heedless inside her enjoyed it.
    â€œThere is bacon, my lord,” Emily said. “The stable boy, Ned, found some in the shed. One would imagine salted fish could be had as well, but apparently not.”
    Lord Blackwood moved around Kitty and took up the coffeepot.
    â€œâ€™Twas a lean season for the herring.”
    Emily studied him curiously. “How do you come to know that?”
    â€œâ€™Twas in the papers, lass.” He smiled.
    Kitty could not prevent it: a breath of pleasure stole from her lips. He glanced at her, but briefly.
    â€œWill ye be regretting the lack o fish too, maleddy?” He passed her a cup of coffee as though he were a footman, this man of great wealth who stood to inherit a dukedom. He dressed with careless ease, not slovenly although without the slightest hint of fashion. He had large hands, strong and ridiculously underused by the delicate cup he proffered. Hands more suited to chopping wood. Or shearing sheep. Or holding a woman indecently close upon an icy stoop.
    Her cheeks warmed.
    She accepted the cup. “Not at all, my lord.” She tempered her tone with great care. “I prefer caviar.”
    His gaze met hers, lazily hooded on the surface yet perfectly aware, as though he of all persons knew she donned her hauteur like a cloak.
    Kitty held her breath.
    His mouth lifted at the edge.
    A breeze of cold air came with the sound of a door opening and the thunking patter of large paws in the front foyer. Then the dogs themselves appeared, a gentleman of about Kitty’s age following. Drawing off his greatcoat and hat, he surveyed the chamber with a quick, light glance. He bowed to Kitty with youthful elegance, all correctness, and entirely unlike the large man standing on the other side of the chamber whose enormous dogs jostled his legs.
    â€œGood day, ma’am.”
    Kitty curtsied.
    â€œMaister Yale,” Lord Blackwood supplied apparently by way of introduction as he leaned back against the sideboard. “Leddy Kath’rine and Leddy Marie Antoine.”
    â€œHow do you do, Lady Katherine?” Mr. Yale bowed, then turned to Emily. “Ma’am.”
    â€œSir, I see you have been outside already,” Emily said without looking up from carving a sausage into bits. “How did you find the snow?”
    â€œCold and wet.” He returned his attention to Kitty. “I regret that your journey has been stymied, my lady.”
    â€œThank you, sir. In fact we are mere miles from Willows Hall, Lady Marie’s home.”
    â€œAnd do you travel alone, ma’am?” He looked about curiously.
    â€œMy governess was lost on the road behind,” Emily said.
    â€œI am crushed to hear it. I daresay she is quite cold and wet now as well.”
    Emily peered at him over the rim of her spectacles. “What an odd thing to say.”
    â€œAnd yet an odder state for her to be in.” He quirked a brow. “At first opportunity