Page 5 of The Pleasure in Persuasion

Her grandmother clucked her tongue, her hands still working the dough. “That is certainly true, though I don’t know why you dislike him so. He is a respectable gentleman, and always so polite.”

“He is a pompous dolt.”

“He is our guest, Lily, and you should not speak that way about a guest,” she scolded, though her lips wore a little smile. “Besides, he is only pompous around you, and that is because he’s trying to impress you.”

Lily harrumphed. “Well, I wish he would stop. In fact, it would impress me greatly if he would never do so again. And I would be positively overjoyed if he would leave the inn altogether. Isn’t his mother awaiting his arrival?”

Mr. Charles Carstairs had arrived at the inn three days ago, intending to stay only one night and leave the following morning for Glastonbury to stay with his mother. At least, that was the impression he’d given when he’d booked his room.

“I believe he wrote to her and told her he’s been delayed,” her grandmother said. “I don’t think he has any intention of leaving until he’s secured your hand in marriage.”

Lily blanched. “Heaven forbid.”

“Come, he isn’t that bad,” Gran said with an amused shake of her head.

Lily, however, wholeheartedly disagreed. Charles Carstairs was bumptious, conceited and, worst of all, incapable of taking no for an answer. He had only been here for a short time, but she’d already declined three invitations to walk with him into the village, and while the offers had seemed harmless enough, the gleam in his eyes had not.

She wrinkled her nose. Gran might believe Mr. Carstairs’ intentions were honorable, but Lily did not.

He was their guest, though, and she had no wish to upset her grandmother, so all she said was, “Maybe he isn’t. But he is not the man for me.”

Gran sighed but said nothing in return, and Lily left the kitchen for the dining room, grabbing a damp rag on her way out.

Roger Witherspoon had gone, and Lily pocketed the coin he’d left beside his empty plate before moving the dishes to a neighboring table so she could wipe up the crumbs he’d left behind.

Her grandmother meant well, she knew, and only wanted her to be happy, but surely anyone could see that Charles Carstairs was not the man for her. Truth be told, she doubted there was anyone out there meant just for her, and she had no intention of searching for such a man, if he even existed.

There was a time—not two years ago, in fact—when she’d wanted to be a wife. She’d even fancied herself in love with her betrothed and had fostered dreams of creating a home and family with the man she’d given her heart to.

That fantasy was snuffed out, however, the day Stephen confessed that his affections—and his offer of marriage—had shifted to another woman. To Lily’s sister, Rose.

The confession was devastating, and all she could think to do was run away. She’d left London almost immediately, fleeing her feckless former-betrothed, her unapologetic sister and unsympathetic mother, for the sanctity of Little Bilberry where she’d thrown herself into the comforting busyness of running her grandparents’ country inn.

These twenty-two months at The Weeping Whiskers had been precisely what her broken heart—and injured pride—had needed. Time had softened the wound left by Rose and Stephen’s betrayal, but it had left a scar, and even now, it still ached on occasion.

After all, her betrothal with Stephen had been a long-standing one, formed by her parents and his when they were but children. Most of her life was spent with the surety that she would be Stephen’s wife, and the mother of his children, until that day when, seemingly out of nowhere, he’d confessed that he did not love her. That, in fact, he loved her sister and wished to marry her instead.

The look of regret in his eyes had seemed sincere, and Lily knew he had no desire to cause her injury, but the fact remained that he had hurt her. He’d hurt her deeply.

But not as deeply as Rose had done.

Lily moved on to another table, and though it was already spotless, she ran the rag over it, scrubbing with unwarranted fervor.

She hadn’t seen her sister since she’d left London almost two years ago. She hadn’t written to her, either—and Rose had sent not a single note to her. What was there to say?

Lily hadn’t attended the wedding, of course. She still cared for her sister—Stephen, too, to some extent—and she did not wish them ill, but neither could she sit through their wedding ceremony, wearing the expected smile and pretending to be happy for them. She wasn’t strong enough for that nor a good enough actor.

According to her mother’s letter, the ceremony was exceedingly lovely, as was the bride, and Rose and Stephen were now happily settled in his ancestral home in Sussex. Lily’s mother kept her abreast of the happy couple’s comings and goings in the letters she sent, one every month without fail, and Lily read every word faithfully.

She hadn’t forgiven Rose yet, not entirely, and if she were being honest with herself, she wasn’t sure she ever would. But she did sometimes miss her sister, and she would never stop caring for her, so she would go on reading her mother’s letters, and would welcome every mention of Rose.

Satisfied that the dining room was clean and tidy again, Lily returned to the kitchen where her grandmother was pulling a loaf of bread out of the oven.

“I do wish you would at least consider giving Mr. Carstairs a chance,” Gran said, apparently picking up the conversation as if Lily had never left the room. “He is a wealthy man, and I hear his property in Glastonbury is quite impressive. You could be mistress of it, Lily.”

“But I don’t want to be mistress of an impressive house,” Lily replied, making her way to the wash basin. “I want to stay here, Gran. I’m happy here.”

“Well, then, maybe Mr. Carstairs would agree to live here with us. Think how nice it would be to have a man around to help.”