Beauty in Disguise. Mary Moore
already trying to invent ways to shorten his stay at the manor and decrease the amount of time he must politely spend with its inhabitants. Perhaps she would be lucky, and he would abort his stay and return to London. Yet a pang touched her heart at the thought.
Her life had changed so that his presence should be of absolutely no importance to her. And now, despite her sheer weariness of an hour ago, she was wide-awake, staring at the ceiling. She could not go downstairs for a book; she had only just left the drawing room complaining she could not keep her eyes open.
Suddenly she perked up, and the wheels in her mind began to turn. Could she go to the bridge? It was not yet ten o’clock; the family would be ensconced in the drawing room at least another hour with their guest. The locals never used the bridge after dark, no matter what the time. Indeed, witches, gnomes and trolls were her friends!
Even as she questioned herself, she rooted through her drab dresses to find her rumpled walking dress of the previous night. By the time she finished hooking the buttons on the serviceable gown, she was resolved to get some fresh air.
She cherished her nighttime freedom, though she had never gone two nights in a row, much less three. Once a week was all she dared risk. But her pistol had given her courage, and once she knew the freedom, even rarely, she could not give it up.
Kathryn was not a fool. She did not dismiss the fact that Lord Dalton might also take a late-night walk to the bridge. She would not put it past him to assume she was a local wench who would also be on the lookout for him. But she felt secure in the knowledge that she would be back long before he retired for the night. Even should he claim fatigue after the drawing room and not join Sir John privately for brandy and billiards, she had at least an hour.
The thought cheered her as none had that day. She would allow herself this one extra hour of complete freedom before she subjected herself to the next fortnight of frustration and the knowledge that had she not allowed Lord Salford to whisk her away, she might even belong to Lord Dalton today.
Kathryn slipped her dark cloak over her shoulders, pulled the hood loosely up over her head and left her room. She looked both ways and took the hallway to the servant’s staircase to the kitchen, where she could slip out unnoticed.
* * *
His Bible was doing him little good this night. He could not concentrate on the words for all of the noise in his head.
He could not sit still any longer; he had to get out of this room. He would walk to the bridge again. He knew it was far too early to expect his late-night visitor, if indeed she intended to visit at all. That was not his purpose in going. He only wanted some air.
So he took up his position at last night’s tree, listening to the gurgling water and taking in deep breaths of the country breezes. He could not resume his search for his fairy, but if there was any chance of seeing her or finding out her identity, he would take it.
Dalton’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a scream, cut off hastily, on the other side of the bridge. As he pushed away from the solid trunk and stepped quietly onto the ancient structure, the sight that met his eyes stopped his heart.
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