Tremaine's True Love by Grace Burrowes Page B

been lounging there, watching Nita putter around in her dressing gown and slippers like a scullery maid?
    “I’m peckish,” he said, prowling into the room. Hungry men walked differently from the well-fed variety, as if they switched imaginary tails and twitched imaginary whiskers. “Too much time in the elements, trotting about the frozen lanes and swinging an ax.” He peered into Nita’s pot of cider. “What have you there?”
    “Cider. You’re welcome to join me.” She made that offer partly out of hospitality and partly out of wistfulness. Mr. St. Michael would be leaving soon, and his company was oddly agreeable.
    “You’re content with bread and butter?” he asked. “Your brother has a fondness for ginger biscuits.”
    “Nicholas does. George can’t abide them. What are you looking for?” Mr. St. Michael was peering into cupboards much as Nita’s brothers did, holding up the table lamp to illuminate his plundering.
    “I’m looking for spices. Cider wants—there it is.” He set the lamp down and brought a small jar to the hearth, sprinkling something into the cider. The scent of cinnamon rose as he returned the jar to the cupboard. “I suspect if I looked long enough, I could find the ginger biscuits too.”
    Ginger biscuits dipped in mulled cider turned a late-night snack into something altogether more delectable.
    “Biscuits are in that crock near the window.”
    Mr. St. Michael brought the entire crock to the raised hearth and pulled up a low stool before the fire.
    “Does Lady Susannah truly fancy that literary squire?” he asked.
    Nita swung the steaming cider off the coals. “I hope not.” She prayed not. “Why do you ask?”
    “The earl would have me believe that yonder squire will pluck up his courage to make an offer for Lady Susannah if her dowry includes a lot of valuable sheep. If this is so, the squire is stupid and your brother not much brighter.”
    Nita liked that Mr. St. Michael was blunt, for that allowed her to be blunt too.
    “The squire is arrogant, Mr. St. Michael, and Nicholas has too much on his mind. Why do you insult them?”
    Nita poured cider into mugs, set those on the hearth, then fetched the bread and butter and a cold, red apple. A feast, by the lights of many.
    By her lights too. She settled in on the hearth, where heat lingered in the stones from the day’s cooking.
    “Sheep are generally regarded as simple animals,” Mr. St. Michael said, “easily panicked, without much sense. They are deemed thus by the man who curses them when they find the single weakness in any fence or wall, when they do as they jolly well please despite the collie barking and racing about, or when they’re solving a problem—such as a lack of fodder—their owner has ignored.”
    He took a sip of cider while the scents of cinnamon and apples filled the kitchen. The hearth was warm, the cider delicious, and Mr. St. Michael’s odd accent—at once rough and plush—absolutely appropriate for his chosen topic.
    “The squire’s fences are a disgrace,” he went on. “I doubt he has a decent sheep dog, and his fields are all in want of marling, from what I could see. He cannot possibly provide adequate care for one of the most valuable herds in England. These biscuits are excellent.”
    Nita dipped a ginger biscuit in cider and took a bite. Spicy, sweet, warm, and as comforting as the company of a man who didn’t mince words and who did care about his sheep.
    “Quite lovely,” Nita murmured.
    “You could sort out the squire in short order, Nita Haddonfield, and yet you disdain marriage. I wonder why.”
    Nita liked this about Mr. St. Michael too. Liked that his mind was restless and curious, that he tackled real questions and left platitudes about the weather to the less stalwart.
    “You’ve apparently disdained marriage yourself,” she said.
    He cradled his mug in both hands, as if warmth—any warmth—must not be squandered.
    “I’m skeptical of the institution’s