"When I first met you aboard the Daphne," Her Grace continued, "I thought you an impertinent hussy. But you were the only one who ventured to speak to me; the rest of that craven lot could not even conceive that an august personage such as myself might be lonely and desire some company. If not for you, my dear, I do not think I would have survived the voyage from Calcutta." Moisture gleamed at the corners of the dowager's dark eyes.

Kit shuddered at the thought of that horrific passage, of the storms that battered the Daphne as it passed through the Cape of Good Hope, of the dark, pitching sea, the howling wind, and the terrible creaking of the ship's timbers. She had nursed the elderly duchess through debilitating bouts of mal de mer when the lady's own servants had been too ill to tend her, and the ordeal had forged an enduring bond of friendship between them. As a result, Kit held the duchess as dear as her own grandmother, despite the lady's tendency to speak her mind and meddle in the affairs of others.

"You give me too much credit, Your Grace," she protested. "I did no less than anyone else would have done."

The dowager sat straight up and glared down her aquiline nose. "Nonsense. You are an exceptional creature, and I will not permit you to wither away into a disappointed old maid." Her lips twitched. "You cannot expect happiness to come to you; you must seize it."

When she was in this sort of mood, any attempt to resist the imperious old lady was like trying to row against the current. "What do you suggest?" Kit asked cautiously.

The older woman appeared to consider the question. "Well, first of all, we must have you fitted for a new wardrobe. You're a fetching thing, but your looks will be greatly improved once you cast off those dreary gowns you insist on wearing."

Kit fingered the dull brown material of her sleeve. "Given that I am still unpacking and cataloging the books I brought back with me, wearing paper-thin muslins and fashionable silks is not exactly practical. Besides, Your Grace, I would rather not spend my money on fancy dresses I will rarely wear."

"Balderdash." The duchess plucked a lemon tart from the tea tray, took a bite, and chewed with obvious relish. "It has been well over a year since your husband's death, and you look like you're still in mourning for him."

"But I am not," Kit protested. "These are practical gowns, and appropriate for my station. After those gaudy creations that George wanted me to wear, I am relieved to have something more somber."

"Somber? You're a widow, child-you're not dead. Goodness, what harm will a few new frocks do?"

"I do not wish to be seen as… well… fast," Kit insisted. "I will not make myself a target for any more impertinent remarks."

"Impertinent remarks?" repeated the duchess with a touch of outrage.

Kit opened her mouth, then closed it with a snap. She could not tell tales out of school, nor would she impugn the elderly woman's family as they had hers. The tips of her ears grew hot with the memory. "I do not wish to discuss it."

"Well, I am a widow, and no one questions my sense of propriety." The duchess cocked her head, her black eyes flashing, looking for all the world like an inquisitive bird. "I cannot believe you are so put off by wagging tongues. Gracious, I have never known you to be so missish!"

Heat bloomed in Kit's cheeks. She grimaced, then counted to five and took a deep breath. "I know you mean well, Your Grace," she stated at length, "but I will not allow you-or anyone else, for that matter-to push me at something I do not want."

The duchess's thin, lampblackened brows rose toward her hairline. "Well, perhaps not so missish, after all. Come now, child. You cannot expect me to believe that you actually enjoy racketing around this house by yourself, swathed in those shapeless sacks. If you were as desolated by that idiot's death as you would have me believe, you would have committed suttee like a poor Hindu widow."

The thought of throwing herself onto a blazing funeral pyre made Kit shudder. "Don't be ridiculous."

The duchess harrumphed. "Quite so. The time has come to form a strategy, my dear. Unless, of course, you intend to remain closed up in this house for the rest of your life."

"I have not given the matter much thought," Kit replied. Another knot of tension began at the back of her neck, but she resisted the urge to rub at it.

"Well, you should," prodded the duchess. Her severe expression eased. "George Mallory may have been an insufferable popinjay, but I can see that he left you well provided for."

Kit blinked. "Yes-well enough. With all due respect, Your Grace, that is none of your business."

The dowager dusted crumbs from her fingertips and reached for a slice of Dundee cake. "I am making it my business, child. Such is the privilege of age and rank, especially for nosy old tabbies like myself who have little else to occupy their time. So… you mean to rest on your laurels? Fustian. You're too young to live like an… oh, what is that word again… an ascetic."

"I am five-and-twenty, Your Grace, once widowed, and possessed of only modest appearance, connections, and fortune. What would you have me do?" Kit shrugged and sipped her tea.

"Perhaps you need to take a lover," quipped the duchess over the rim of her teacup.

The young woman's gasp of shock sent a flood of liquid down her windpipe, and she began to cough. "Really, ma'am!" she sputtered. Her face a furious scarlet, she set her cup down with a clatter and fumbled for the kerchief she had tucked in her cuff.

The duchess gazed mildly back at her. "And why not? You are strikingly beautiful, despite your protests to the contrary. With a few alterations to your attire and your hair, I wager that handsome bucks would flock to your side by the score."

Kit started to lift a hand toward her tight chignon, then stopped herself. "Out of the question. I will be no man's mistress."

Mischief twinkled in the duchess's eyes. "Are you sure about that? Eh, I thought not. To tell the truth, you might be more prudent to find a husband."

Kit did not answer right away. "I am not certain I wish to be a wife, either," she declared. "I have been married once, and I do not care to repeat the experience."

"Why not?" The dowager finished the last bite of her Dundee cake, then eyed the plate of marzipan. "You're a woman who has seen something of the world, not some featherheaded chit just out of the schoolroom. This time you will be able to choose a proper husband."

Kit wagged a finger at her. "No, Your Grace."

The duchess pulled back, clearly affronted. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

"While I appreciate your concern, I wish to live my life my way. What man would countenance his wife spending all her time translating Hindu literature? I assure you that I am quite content the way I am."

The duchess drummed her fingers on the arm of the sofa. "I vow you delight in disobliging me."

Kit's smile melded with the rim of her cup as she sipped her tea. Lukewarm. Ugh. She made a face and set aside the cup. "The moment I decide to issue forth into society, Your Grace, you shall be the first one to know."

"Insolent, headstrong girl," muttered the dowager. "Very well, then. I shall say no more on the matter."

"May I have your word on that, ma'am?"

The duchess skewered her with a penetrating glare; Kit gazed back, unperturbed. After a few moments, Her Grace looked away.

"I suppose I am being rather high-handed with you," the older woman huffed. "All right. You have my word. 'Pon rep, you are a stubborn creature."

"Thank you, Your Grace." With a slight smile, Kit proffered the plate of marzipan.

The duchess waved it away. "No, thank you. You have quite ruined my appetite."

While she sipped her tea, the dowager went on to regale Kit with the latest news and gossip from London; the duchess seemed to find great amusement in watching young chits and their mothers scramble hither and thither like hens in a barnyard as they made their all-important preparations for balls and parties.

"Unfortunately, we will have no further diversions of that sort until autumn." Then the duchess paused and set down her teacup. "And now I have a favor to ask you."

Kit braced herself. "And that is?…"

"The last week of this month I am due to visit my grandson at his country estate near Stow-on-the-Wold. I had hoped you would consent to accompany me."

"Accompany you?" Kit pulled a face; she was doing it again. Soon she would be nothing but a complete mimic.

Her Grace did not appear to notice. "You make it sound like such a remarkable request, child. Really, I know of no other person whose company I can tolerate so well as yours."

Kit swiveled around in her chair and poured His Grace a fresh cup of tea, her shoulders hunched so that the duchess could not see her scowl. "How long will you be staying, ma'am?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Oh, a week, at most. I would consider it a great favor to me, Kit. My great-grandchildren are delightful, but I fear my grandson and his wife are as stiff rumped as they come. They are convinced that I have become completely addled in my old age and that it is high time I settle down in the dower house and stop making a fool of myself. Bah. Stop making a fool of myself, indeed! I shall need your assistance in reasoning with these young idiots."

Kit pursed her lips. "I think it very wrong of them to force you to do anything, Your Grace."

"Yes, but that will not prevent them from trying, I can promise you that. But do not worry, child-you will have no social obligations and no responsibilities save to keep me from pulling caps with my relations. You will be there as my very great friend. Surely you agree that a change of scenery will do you good. Come with me, Kit, do."