Page 88 of The Lady Knows Best

Daphne sat down near her, perched uncertainly on the edge of her chair. “I was afraid you would be displeased with me.”

“Why should you think that?”

“Because . . .” She stared down at her fingers knotted in her lap. “In the end, I was as susceptible as any young lady—perhaps more so—to a rake’s charms.” At Lady Stalbridge’s laugh, she jerked her chin up. “Ma’am?”

“It was easy enough to see the way the wind was blowing at Lyneham Park. Your looks, and his, gave the game away. I felt sure you would declare you couldn’t go through with the essay. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I read what you had written. I nearly insisted on Lord Stalbridge turning the coach around.”

“I rather wish you had,” Daphne interjected with a weary smile.

“Ah, but if it were not for today’s turn of events, you might always have had lingering doubts—”

“About Lord Deveraux?”

“Perhaps,” she said, with a tiny shrug of uncertainty. “There was still the matter of the wager. But I was referring to doubts about yourself.”

Daphne started.

“I’ve watched you give thoughtful, sensible advice to those around you, drawn from wisdom and shaped by a firmness of character beyond your years. The only one who didn’t seem to trust Miss Busy B. . . . was you. Now, however, I hope you realize your own insightfulness. There is nothing more valuable than curiosity and a willingness to learn.”

Once more that afternoon, Daphne found herself blinking back tears. “I always assumed you would frown upon any of us doing something so ordinary as falling in love and getting married.”

Lady Stalbridge looked genuinely taken aback. “Why should you think that?”

“Well, you are the head of a magazine for misses.”

“True,” she conceded with a tip of her chin. “And I do hope catching a most eligible husband won’t be the only use to which you put your gifts. I hope a part of you will always be Miss Busy B. at heart, even when the world knows you as Lady Deveraux. But marriage can be a wonderful thing. I know that now, though I didn’t always. I’m not sure I even believed in the sort of starry-eyed love one reads about in books . . . until I found Kit—Lord Stalbridge—again, and I was free to choose for myself.” A faraway look spread across her face, bringing an unusual softness to her ordinarily sharp features, curving her lips in a gentle smile, and misting over her blue eyes.

After a moment, she shook herself, as if remembering where she was, and to whom she was speaking. “So, no—I’m not disappointed. I’m happy that you’re happy. I only ever intended to object to the notion that a young woman is a mere satellite, orbiting around the world of men, nothing to do but sparkle and shine, moving from her father to her husband as if drawn by gravity, rather than moving of her own free will—or capable of spinning off in another direction entirely.

“And speaking of liberty of choice . . .” She picked up a thin stack of folded papers from the table beside her. “I didn’t give your new essay to the printer yet—I wanted to have a look at it first. I read it while you were freshening up. Mrs. Goode’s Magazine for Misses will be happy to publish it,” she said, handing it to Daphne, “under whatever name you choose. But I do think Lord Deveraux should read it before it goes to print—not because the decision is his to make, but because he deserves to know how you feel.”

Daphne nodded, hoping the movement of her head would disguise her blush. “Yes, ma’am.”

“All set?” Lord Stalbridge spoke from the doorway.

“Of course, my dear,” said his wife, rising from her chair and donning her pelisse while Daphne tucked the essay away and put on her bonnet.

Below, Miles waited to hand her into his curricle. “Home, ma’am?” he teased.

But the warmth in his eyes and the pressure of his fingers was real. Lyneham Park would be her home from now on—the home she would build with him.

“Yes, please,” she said, and then added, with a mischievous wink, “my lord.”

Ah, there it was, that rakish smile. “I begin to think, my dear, that you are reluctant to tell the world what a devil I am, because you would prefer to keep me all to yourself.” He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed her knuckles one by one, a clear promise of more kisses to come, when they weren’t under the watchful eye of a chaperone.

Once the lightweight curricle had put some distance between them and the Stalbridges’ carriage, Daphne twisted slightly on the seat and threaded her arm through his. She could feel the strength of his forearm beneath her hand as he guided the horses northward.

“Do you regret sending me that bundle of quills?” she asked, half playful, half serious.

“Daphne,” he scolded, shifting the reins into one hand so he could cover hers with the other. “I hope I’ve made it clear today that you may write and publish whatever you wish—so long as it is, in fact, what you wish.” He glanced down at her. “My lady.”

A shiver of anticipation slipped through her. One day more, and she would be his lady indeed.

“And if what I wish to write is a treatise on education,” she went on, “something that challenges the received wisdom on how children should be taught and what girls in particular should learn, something that will no doubt be branded outlandish and radical . . . ?”

“Then,” he answered without a moment’s hesitation, “I will be glad to think of all the children whose teachers and parents are wise enough to listen to your good advice.”

When they arrived at Lyneham Park, the daylight had been reduced to a hint of dusky purple on the horizon. Against that backdrop, the candlelit rooms blazed a welcome.