The Christmas Kittens Read Free

she again called “Mrs. Shelby, `tis Karis Lockhart. Are you here?” Her voice echoed back at her, but there was no other sound. About to return to the kitchen, she noticed a door open on the far side of the hall.
    Going to the portal she peered in and discovered a large, well-stocked library. She was only vaguely aware of a fire crackling in the fireplace, for her interest was centered on the books. It was a room that she thought existed only in her imagination.
    Realizing the library was unoccupied, she hesitated only a moment. She gently placed the basket of sleeping kittens on a table in the hall then entered the room. Taking a deep breath, her lungs filled with the wonderful scent of old books. Sheer heaven, she thought, for the thing she'd missed most about her life in Oxford was her father's extensive library. But that had all been sold to pay their debts.
    Karis knew she shouldn't be here. Aunt Flora would disapprove of her ogling the vast literary treasure. She had declared that both Karis and her sister, having been raised by only their Greek scholar father, were well on their way to becoming bluestockings. The baroness had forbidden both girls the use of the small library at Westwood, saying they would be wise to use Dorinda as their model and pursue more feminine arts.
    Looking guiltily over her shoulder at the empty Great Hall, Karis decided Mrs. Shelby wouldn't object if she took just a moment to inspect the books. What harm could there be in that? With an unladylike eagerness, she advanced on the shelf directly in front of her.

*   *   *
     
    Derrick Kenton, tenth Marquess of Marsden, tied the reins of his horse to the rear of his carriage. Walking round the vehicle he called to the coachman. “Jock, how much farther?”
    The coachman pulled the red woolen scarf from over his nose and mouth saying, “Recken it's another twenty miles, milord.”
    Marsden noted the red nose and watering eyes of the fellow. It had been a cursed cold journey into Warwichshire and he didn't want his servant to pay for his fit of temper against his grandmother and her infernal matchmaking. “Do you need to stop at an inn to warm yourself?”
    “Not I, sir. I'll wait till we get to Whiteoaks.” Jock repositioned the scarf to protect his face and tugged his cap to the marquess.
    Marsden entered the carriage quietly so as not to disturb his sleeping daughter. Settling with his back to the horses as the coach lurched forward, he inquired, “How is Lady Rosalind?”
    The young nurse, a pink-cheeked country girl of barely twenty, hesitated a moment before she answered her new employer. “Been sleepin' most of the way, milord. But she seems right `appy to be away from Marsden `ouse. Says she ain't seen much of your lordship since her mama up and died.”
    Guilt washed over the marquess. He knew he'd indulged his anger after the death of his wife last year. “No, she hasn't, but that will all change, Binx.”
    He'd wrapped himself in a cloak of indifference to cover the humiliation of having his wife run off with a wealthy prince of foreign birth. Rachel had always done the least expected thing. But the ill-fated flight had cost the pair their lives when their ship had gone down during a storm.
    His youthful marriage had been a mistake from the beginning. Rosalind was the only good thing to come from the union, but he'd forgotten that for a time.
    With Bonaparte safely exiled for a second time, Marsden had wandered aimlessly about on the continent for nearly a year, hoping to avoid the whispers of Society. On his arrival in London at the end of the summer, his grandmother had convinced him to let Lady Rosalind remain with her where the child had resided during his absence. He now realized the woman was only interested in giving him the freedom to reenter the social whirl, to do his duty and remarry.
    In October, he'd returned from the country and made the attempt to get back to his old life. But he'd been besieged by every