Kit laughed at yet another weak joke elliptically alluding to her husband’s sexual prowess and expertly turned the conversation into safer channels. There’d been more than one moment that evening when she’d been sorely tempted to let loose the reins of her temper and give her teasing companions the facts. In truth, the facts were far more torrid than anything they imagined.

The music ceased, and she thanked Major Satterthwaite before moving off down the room. Within minutes, she was surrounded by a party of the district’s dames, the ladies Gresham, Marchmont, and Dersingham among them. Their talk was serious, revolving about the redecoration of Castle Hendon. Kit listened with half an ear, making the appropriate noises in the right places. She’d perfected the art of polite conversation during her stay in London. It was a prerequisite for retaining one’s sanity in the ballrooms of the ton. At least the ladies’ conversation was not peppered with allusions to the coming night’s activities. Every teasing comment simply added to her nervousness, which in turn increased her irritation with her own irrationality.

Why on earth should she feel nervous over what was to come? What could Jack possibly do to her-with her-that he hadn’t already done? Images of them, in various positions in the cottage, rose to torment her. Kit smiled and nodded at Lady Dersingham, and wondered whether her fever had truly addled her wits.

Then she saw him approaching through the crowd, stopping to chat here and there as people claimed his attention. But his silver-grey eyes were on her. Her breathing suspended. That familiar sensation of being stalked blossomed in Kit’s midriff. No, it wasn’t the fever that had addled her brain.

Kit wrenched her eyes from her approaching fate, fixing them on the mild features of Lady Gresham, and desperately tried to think of a reason why it was too early to leave for home. For Castle Hendon.

The instant Jack joined the group, she knew it was hopeless. All the ladies, grandes dames every one, positively melted at the first sound of his deep voice. She didn’t bother trying evasion. Instead, she raised her chin and nodded polite acquiescence to his suggestion that they leave. “Yes, of course. I’ll change my clothes.”

With that, she escaped upstairs, not bothering to haul Amy from George’s side.

In her bedroom, a surprise awaited her. Instead of the new carriage dress she’d ordered Elmina to lay out, her maid was smoothing the full skirts of a magnificent emerald velvet riding habit.

“Where did that come from?” Kit shut the door and went to the bed.

“Lord Hendon sent it for you, ma petite. He said you should wear it. Is it not enchanting?”

Kit examined the severe lines of the habit and could not disagree. Her mind raced, considering the implications. Her initial impulse was to refuse to wear clothes her husband had decreed she should wear. But impulse was tempered by caution. A habit meant horses. Kit slipped the heavy ivory wedding dress from her shoulders and Elmina eased it over her hips. Freed of her petticoats, Kit sat before her dressing table while Elmina pulled the pins from her headdress.

She hadn’t discussed how they were to travel to Castle Hendon, leaving Jack to deal with that as his prerogative. She’d imagined they’d go in the barouche. The riding habit said otherwise.

Suddenly enthusiastic, Kit hurried Elmina. A wild ride through the night was just what she needed to dispel her silly trepidation. The knots in her stomach would disappear once they were flying over the fields.

Pirouetting in front of her long mirror, Kit was pleased to approve of her husband’s taste. How had he known? A wry smile twisted her lips. Not only had Jack known she’d prefer to ride, he’d known she’d never refuse to wear the habit in such circumstances. As she’d once remarked, when it came to manipulation, he was a master.

When she appeared at the top of the stairs, it seemed that all of Norfolk had gathered in the front hall. Buoyed by the knowledge that she looked her best, Kit beamed upon them all. As she descended the stairs, an avenue opened from their foot, through the throng, to where Jack waited for her by the door. Even from that distance, Kit caught the glint in his eyes as they swept over her, appreciation glowing in their depths. Pride was etched in every line of his face.

She must have responded to the wishes of those lining her route for they seemed happy enough, but Kit was unaware of anything beyond Jack. He held out one hand as she approached and she slipped her fingers into his, dimly aware of the cheers that rose about them. Then Jack’s fingers tightened about hers and he drew her out onto the porch.

Some had noticed her dress and started whispering. The whispers turned to exclamations when the crowd, pushing through the door behind them, saw the two horses Matthew held prancing in the moonlight. Delia was a shifting black shadow, highlighted by the white flowers someone had plaited into her mane; beside her, Champion’s hide gleamed palely.

Kit turned to Jack.

He lifted one quizzical brow. “Are you game, my lady?”

Kit laughed, her nervousness drowned by excitement. Smiling, Jack led her down the steps and across to the horses. He lifted her to her sidesaddle before swinging up to Champion’s broad back.

Only Spencer approached them, all others too wary of the sharp hooves striking sparks from the flinty drive. He came between them, reaching up to squeeze Kit’s hand before placing it on her pommel with a valedictory pat. Then he turned to Jack. “Take care of her, m’boy.”

Jack smiled. “I will.” And that, he thought, as he wheeled Champion, was a vow every bit as binding as the ones he’d given earlier that day.

The horses needed no urging to leave the noisy crowd behind. Well matched for pace, they fell to the task of covering the five miles to Castle Hendon with highbred ease. Jack felt no urge to converse as the miles disappeared beneath the heavy hooves. One glance at Kit’s face had told him his bright idea had been a master stroke.

His lips curved. In his present state, being forced to traverse the eight miles of road between Cranmer Hall and Castle Hendon in a closed carriage with Kit, knowing they’d have to appear before the Castle staff immediately upon their arrival, would have been nothing less than torture.

Riding was far safer.

Beside him, Kit gloried in the rush of wind on her face. The regular thud of Delia’s hooves steadied her skittering pulse until it beat to the same racing rhythm. There was excitement in the air, and a sense of pleasure shared. She slanted a glance at Jack, then looked ahead, smiling.

They sped through the night, the moon’s luminescence spilling softly over them, lighting their way. For Kit, the black mass of Castle Hendon appeared before them too soon, bringing her respite from jangling nerves to an end. Grooms came running. Jack lifted her down before the steps leading up to the huge oak doors of her new home.

Her feet touched the ground, then she was swung up into Jack’s arms.

Kit bit back a squeal and glared at him.

Jack grinned and carried her up the steps and through the open door.

Kit blinked in the glare of lights that greeted them. As Jack set her on her feet, she adjusted her features and smoothly moved into the business of greeting her new staff.

She vaguely remembered Lovis from her single visit as a child. Jack hadn’t been at home at the time. Many of the other staff had family at Cranmer, so her progress down the long line was punctuated by explanatory histories. When she reached the end and acknowledged the bob of the sleepy scullery maid, Kit heard Jack’s deep voice just behind her.

“Lovis, perhaps you’d show Lady Hendon to her room?”

Lovis bowed deeply. “Very good, m’lord.”

Kit hid a nervous grin, realizing there was a tradition to be upheld. Lovis led the way, positively steeped in ceremony. Kit followed him up the wide curving staircase. When she reached the bend, she was relieved to see her husband still at its foot, conversing with one of the male staff-the head groom, as far as she recalled. The thought that he would doubtless give her time to soothe her frazzled nerves before coming to her eased her skittish pulse.

Please, God, let it be slow and steady. Too often, their first encounters resembled a clash of the furies.

The chamber Lovis led her to was enormous. Castle Hendon had grown up about a medieval donjon. Looking about her, Kit surmised her room might well have been part of the donjon’s main hall. The walls were of solid stone, papered and painted over, the doors and windows set into their thickness. Extensive reworking had enlarged the windows; Kit felt sure that when she drew the curtains the next morning, the views the Castle was famed for would greet her eyes. Her sleepy, sated eyes.

With a start, Kit fell to examining the furnishings. They were exquisite, every one. She stopped by the four-poster bed. It was huge, covered in pale green satin, the Hendon arms carved in the headboard.

Kit wondered what the pale satin would feel like against her skin.

Abruptly, she remembered she had no clothes with her. In a panic, she flew to the massive mahogany armoire, pulling open doors and drawers. She found a complete wardrobe-dresses, underwear, accessories-all put carefully away, as if she’d always lived here. But none of them were hers. Her luggage was somewhere between Cranmer and Castle Hendon, with Elmina.

Puzzled, she drew forth a fine voile nightdress. Shaking out its folds, she held up the almost transparent garment. That her husband had chosen this wardrobe-for her-was instantly apparent.

Muttering an imprecation against all rakes, Kit bundled the shocking nightgown into a ball and crammed it back in the drawer. Her fingers pulled at the next fold of material. They couldn’t all be like that, surely?