The Bridal Swap. Karen Kirst

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      Bits and pieces of their conversation drifted out to the living room.

      He heard the self-deprecating humor in Kate’s voice as she asked for help with her hair. “It appears I’m helpless without my staff.”

      “Don’t worry, dear. Let’s go up to my room and see what we can do.”

      “Since I’ll be on my own for a while, maybe you can give me some pointers.”

      Josh stuffed his hands in his pockets, finding it odd that a young lady would need help fixing her hair.

      As the pair ascended the stairs, he wondered how Francesca would’ve coped without servants to do her bidding. He hadn’t given it a thought before this moment, all the changes he’d expected her to make. Instead of being waited on hand and foot, she would’ve had to do everything herself. While he’d been blinded by love, she’d obviously been thinking of more practical things.

      In less than ten minutes, Kate and his mother were making their way back downstairs. His mother reached the bottom steps first. “Will you make Kate a cup of hot tea? Her breakfast is on the stove.”

      To Kate, she said, “I’m sorry to run off, but Laney Hedrick has been ill. The ladies in our sewing circle are taking turns delivering meals, and today happens to be mine. Would you mind spending the morning with Joshua? He’s agreed to show you around.”

      Pausing on the last step, Kate’s fingers tightened on the banister. Her gaze shot to his face, then away.

      “I’d like that.”

      His gaze narrowed. Kate Morgan’s perfect manners couldn’t conceal her wariness. Was it him? Did he make her uncomfortable? Did she think he’d lash out in anger at her because of what Francesca had done? Or was she simply a timid young lady?

      Their temporary guest was a stranger to him. Francesca had spoken at length of her parents but when it came to her sister, she’d been strangely reticent. He wondered why that was. Was theirs a strained relationship?

      “I’ll be back in time to fix supper, I hope. If not, there’s smoked ham and bread for sandwiches.”

      “Don’t rush, Ma. We’ll rustle up something if you’re late.”

      The back door clicked shut. Silence hung thick in the air. Kate avoided his gaze, staring with great interest at the white pine floorboards.

      Clearing his throat, he headed for the kitchen. “I’ll get your breakfast.”

      While he set the water to boiling and retrieved a teacup and saucer from the cabinet, she stood gazing out the windows overlooking the front yard. He wondered what she was thinking. Why the forlorn expression? Did she miss the big city already?

      At the sight of the heaping portion of eggs, bacon and biscuits, her eyes widened and she pressed a hand against her midsection. “I can’t possibly eat all that.”

      Swallowing his irritation, he gripped the top rung of the chair in front of him. “You want me to make something else?” Your Royal Highness?

      She looked doubtful. “I normally have a bowl of oatmeal or a slice of toast with marmalade.”

      He thought back to the few weeks in March he’d spent with Francesca. “Your sister has quite the appetite.”

      Hurt flashed across her face, which she quickly masked. “My sister can eat anything she likes and it doesn’t affect her figure.”

      Josh stood mute. What had he said to cause her pain? His heart beat out a warning. He’d known Kate Morgan less than twenty-four hours, and already she was getting under his skin.

      “Well, you certainly don’t look as if you need to worry about that,” he said brusquely. “I’ll check if we have oatmeal.”

      Her eyes flared with surprise. “Wait. Please don’t go to the trouble.” Lowering herself into the chair, she indicated the plate. “This smells delicious.”

      At least she wasn’t sulking. Francesca would have.

      He retrieved her tea from the kitchen and set it on the table, along with a crock of honey, then sank into the chair across the table. He watched her eat, thinking he’d never seen such refined manners. She ate carefully, her jaw barely moving as she chewed, dabbing her mouth with her crisp napkin.

      “What would you like to do today?”

      “I’d like to scout out some possible sites for photographs. Can you suggest any particularly interesting spots?”

      “First I need to know what you’re interested in photographing. What kind of book is this going to be?”

      “A sort of travel guide. I’d like pictures of the mountains, of course.” Her eyes sparkled as she warmed to her topic. “Churches make interesting photos. Barns. Wagons. Everyday scenes of life on a farm. Would you show me your farm?”

      “Sure.”

      “I also like to take portraits of people. I noticed the one of your family on the fireplace mantel. Perhaps I can take another one and give your mother a print.”

      “She’d like that, I’m sure. That was taken many years ago.” He sipped the stout, black brew. “As to possible sites, I’ll have to give it some thought.”

      “Thank you.”

      “How long will it take you to gather all the photographs you need?” In other words, how long before you leave?

      “I’m not certain. But I’m not in any hurry to go back. My parents are touring Europe for the next two months. Francesca is on her honeymoon—” She broke off, her gaze shooting to his. Flustered, she rushed ahead. “Anyway, I didn’t like the idea of rattling around the estate with only staff for company.”

      “I’m curious why you didn’t go with your parents. Surely Europe is a more interesting subject than our mountains.”

      “Simple. They didn’t ask. My parents prefer to take their vacations alone.”

      “I see.” Taken aback by her candid response, he said, “Well, I imagine you’ll soon be bored here.”

      “If that happens, then I will know it’s time to go home.”

      “Don’t you have fancy parties to attend? Shopping to do? I’m sure you noticed our one and only general store.”

      Her eyes dulled. “If my presence here is inconvenient, I will leave immediately.”

      Now he felt like a heel. He’d been insensitive. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to make you feel unwelcome.”

      Lashes lowered, she sipped her tea. Her fingers were elegant, nails trim and shiny, skin like satin. One gold filigree ring adorned the fourth finger of her right hand. They were the hands of a privileged lady, unblemished by hard work.

      How would he handle the strain of seeing Francesca’s sister every day? Reminding him of all he’d lost. And the gossip her presence would stir СКАЧАТЬ