Lady Midnight by Amanda Mccabe Page A

decide what to say just yet.
    Especially to Mr. Lindley himself. Or Michael, as she couldn't help but think of him. He was indeed well named for the archangel.
    As she helped the child arrange her sheet music, Kate took a surreptitious peek at the people still grouped by the fireplace. Lady Darcy had at last turned her cool scrutiny away, and was working on a piece of embroidery. Christina appeared to be thinking of something far away. Daydreaming about her plants, no doubt.
    But Michael—ah, he still watched her, his eyes slightly narrowed, arms folded across his chest.
    Their encounter on the moor had discomposed her, more than she liked to admit even to herself. All her life, she had been taught to read men's thoughts and desires without revealing any of her own. But Michael Lindley was unreadable. He looked like the veriest Renaissance god, a man every woman would swoon over, a man to whom all the pleasures of the world were freely available. Yet he chose to be a gentleman farmer, to live with his family in isolated Yorkshire. He was not like the men who had flocked to her in her old life. He was not like anyone she had ever met before.
    He was kind to her, and charming even, with an easy manner. But there was something behind all that, something buried in the depths of his eyes, shadowed and hidden. Michael Lindley was a mystery. And Kate hated mysteries, except for her own.
    She also hated the way she felt when he watched her. No— hated was the wrong word. She felt flustered, flushed, unsure, and very young. She felt like all her careful, practical poise was slipping out of her control, leaving her awkward, unprotected.
    He saw too much. Could he see through her flimsy disguise?
    Kate just couldn't let that happen. She wouldn't. She already liked this strange, cold, ancient house. She liked Lady Christina, and this golden little elf-child next to her. She didn't want to leave them yet.
    She settled beside Amelia on the bench, listening to the child's surprisingly competent rendition of "Fur Elise." She focused entirely on the music, but was still fully aware of the instant when Michael turned his regard away from her. The warm, sunny tingle at the nape of her neck faded, leaving only the marble chill of the air.
    Kate took a breath in relief. But nothing could quell the strange, brief pang of disappointment.
    * * *
    This was Michael's favorite time of day.
    Dinner was over, the ladies were retired to their chambers, and Amelia was safely tucked up in bed. The house was quiet, like a fire banked down to slumber again until the morning. His work was done for the day; there were no servants or tenants needing to meet with him, no fields to be inspected or quarrels between Christina and their mother to be settled.
    He liked to come out to the terrace off of the back of the house, even on cool nights like this one. He could look out over the gardens, all sculpted shadows beneath the moon, and just breathe in the silence. It reminded him of just why he had come to this land—so far from his old wild London life—in the first place. Why he stayed here, watching the years wax and wane. It was the peace.
    Sometimes, it felt almost as if Caroline were next to him in the darkness, a ghostly wisp of golden hair and gentle smiles. He would talk to her in his mind, telling her of how beautiful their daughter was. Of how sorry his heart remained for all he had put her through in their too-short marriage—always sorry.
    Tonight, though, his wife's pale spirit was nowhere to be found. His mind was filled with the dark, rose-scented presence of Mrs. Kate Brown.
    Michael reached for the snifter of brandy resting on the stone balustrade and took a deep, bracing swallow of the amber liquid. It was smooth and warm, with a sharp bite underneath, but it did nothing to erase the images in his mind. Mrs. Brown, solemn and attentive as she listened to Amelia at the pianoforte and asked his daughter questions about her music. Mrs. Brown