Page 67 of The Lady Knows Best

“That seems a thoroughly pleasant way to spend a day,” said his wife. Daphne thought it might be a softening trick of the light, or perhaps of her own good mood, but Lady Stalbridge sounded less suspicious, less skeptical of Miles than she had done even the day before. “Don’t you agree, Miss Burke?”

Daphne did, barring the unavoidable embarrassment of having to greet Miles after last night, and the potential peril of bursting into flame if he so much as sent her a conspiratorial wink.

Her anxiety over that first meeting was not prolonged, as Miles entered the breakfast room not five minutes later and called out a greeting to all. “Oh, no thank you, ma’am,” he replied to Lady Stalbridge’s invitation to take the seat beside her. “I breakfasted an hour ago, with my grandmama. I’m always an early riser at Lyneham—there’s something about it that makes me eager not to waste a minute.”

Despite his determined cheeriness, Daphne glimpsed a hint of shadow beneath his eyes, as if he had not passed a restful night. Well, she supposed she had not exactly sent him off to his bed in a state of relaxation. But then, why had he not simply, er, taken matters into his own hands?

Really! gasped Miss Busy B., thoroughly appalled.

Daphne smiled to herself, rather hoping the prim and proper half of her conscience would depart in a huff and leave her in peace for the rest of the day.

“What?” cried Miles, scanning the table. “No sign of Ryland yet this morning? Well, I’ll send Frost to wake him, and then I’m off to take care of a small matter Mr. Palmer brought to my attention last evening. But after that, I shall be ready to show you Lyneham. In an hour or so? Excellent—we’ll meet in the winter parlor.” And with a pair of crisp nods—one to the company and one to Daphne in particular, though he did not meet her eyes—he was gone.

“Such energy,” declared Lady Stalbridge, more amused than chiding.

Bell nodded her agreement as she wiped kipper grease from her fingertips and then laid her napkin aside. “And for family portraits, elegant tapestries, some awful sculpture Great-Uncle So-and-So brought back from abroad?” She mimed a yawn. “Pass the coffee, please. I’m going to need it.”

Long practice made it easy enough for Daphne to ignore her sister. After finishing her eggs, toast, and tea, she rose from the table. “I believe I will go upstairs and bid Lady Deveraux a good morning.”

“An excellent idea,” said Lady Stalbridge. “I shall join you shortly.”

“By the way . . .” Daphne turned on the threshold and spoke over her shoulder. “Have any of you seen my writing desk?”

“Mm.” Lord Stalbridge, in the midst of a noisy slurp of coffee, raised a finger. “It’s in our room,” he said when he could speak. “Must’ve been some mix-up in the flurry of unpacking yesterday afternoon.”

“I’ll see that it gets taken across the corridor to your room, first thing,” promised Lady Stalbridge with a knowing smile.

Daphne nodded her thanks, though she had less and less of an idea how to finish her essay in a way that would satisfy Lady Stalbridge and the readers of the Magazine for Misses without hurting Miles. But if she gave it up entirely, she would be sealing her fate here. She would have no excuse not to marry him. . . .

There was a certain irony in her uncertainty about how to proceed—she who could give others such clear-sighted, unwavering advice. Suddenly she wished she hadn’t been quite so eager to silence her inner Miss Busy B.

In her journey from the breakfast room, through the hall, to the winter parlor she glimpsed not another soul, except a housemaid carrying an armload of linens, who scurried out of sight at the sound of Daphne’s footsteps.

She found Lady Deveraux and Miss Palmer in the winter parlor, seated at the round table on which tea had been served the day before. Daphne supposed that was where Miles had breakfasted. The dishes had been cleared, but there was still a silver coffee service and a cup and saucer before each lady.

Miss Palmer was reading from a duodecimo volume bound in dull brown leather. Something edifying and religious, by the sounds of it. Lady Deveraux had her needlework in her lap, but her hands were still, and she appeared to have fallen into a doze.

“Oh, it’s Miss Burke. Good morning,” called Miss Palmer with a welcoming smile.

Lady Deveraux’s needle began to flash. “G’morning. Well, get on with it then, Palmer.”

Her companion started at the reminder, then giggled and switched out the slender volume in her hand for a thicker one tucked in her lap, beneath the table.

“We were just about to learn the fate of Allora,” explained Miss Palmer, opening the book.

“Aye, the brigand has just dragged her into his hideout and is puzzling over how to share his prize among his men,” said Lady Deveraux with a gleeful cackle. “Couldn’t be sure whose footsteps we heard in the corridor, so Palmer always has something less salacious at hand, just in case. Wouldn’t want to shock Lord Ryland. But you strike me as the sort of young lady who appreciates good literature?” She gestured with her needle toward the chair to her left.

Daphne sat down beside her. “Indeed, I adore Robin Ratliff’s books.”

“We’ve read this one six times,” confessed Miss Palmer, her cheeks pink.

“Seventh time’s the charm,” declared the elderly viscountess, with an impatient motion of one hand and a comical leer.

While Miss Palmer continued with the familiar tale of The Brigand’s Captive, Daphne poured herself a cup of coffee and considered the day ahead. Miles was about to show her the estate of which he intended to make her mistress, just as he’d told her family. She’d accepted this invitation with the idea it would make her inevitable rejection sting even more.

But she had not considered how many others might be hurt by her callousness.

And it certainly had never occurred to her how much she might like Lyneham Park.