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He cocked his head. “Are you trying to frighten me off of Miss Pickering, Mrs. Kitteridge?”
She stilled. Heavens, was she? There were few candidates on Synne as it was; she’d be a fool to discourage him from any of them.
Why, then, had she pressed the negatives of this particular match? Surely it had nothing to do with her attraction to him.
“No,” she answered firmly, as much to center her emotions as it was to answer him. “Certainly not. Miss Pickering would make a fine wife, after all. She’s intelligent, and sensible, and would no doubt be happy to rusticate in the country. The better to focus on her passion.”
“Which is?”
“Insects.”
He blinked. “Insects.” At Margery’s nod he let out a small laugh. “Well, we certainly have insects in abundance at Brackley Court.”
Margery smiled. “Shall we find the lady in question? I guarantee, if you are at all interested in insects—or, rather, in listening to Miss Pickering wax poetic about them—you shall have an admirer for life.”
His lips twisted in that endearingly lopsided smile of his and he nodded. As they made their way back across the street and to the stationer’s, in search of Miss Pickering, however, Margery found her resolve to be professional slipping. Though she knew Miss Pickering to be a perfectly fine candidate, she wanted nothing more than to yank on the duke’s arm and drag him in the other direction.
Why? Surely she didn’t want the duke for herself. She didn’t want anyone, after all; she would not replace Aaron in her heart.
But desire wasn’t love, her mind whispered. And she was so lonely.
No. She clenched her jaw and pushed into the shop, making a beeline for the young lady in question, His Grace following close behind.Think of Aaron, she told herself sternly. For, as horrifying as it was, it seemed she needed the reminder of why she was taking on this job of finding a bride for the duke. And shewouldfind a wife for him before the blackmail funds were due. Even if it killed her.
Which, she thought as she guided the duke into a conversation about insects with Miss Pickering—and the sourness of jealousy filled her mouth—it just might.
Chapter 5
Three days later and Daniel had met just about every eligible woman on Synne.
Truly, he felt a bit like the prince, traveling about looking for his Cinderella, visiting every house with an unmarried female and hoping for a perfect fit. Or, rather, he thought with a frown, like the Beast, looking for a woman who would see beyond his appearance and take him as he was.
But this was no fairy tale, he told himself fiercely. There would be no happily-ever-after at the end of his story.
Even so, it was hard not to hope for more with Mrs. Kitteridge manning the helm of his future marriage.
Truly, the woman was a marvel, he mused as he accompanied her into the Assembly Rooms. She was like a whirlwind of positivity, all wrapped up in alluring curves and soft brown curls.
But the crowd was larger than he’d assumed it would be, no doubt due to the improving weather. Several of the people present were ones he had met in the past days on his excursions with Mrs. Kitteridge. And yet there were many he hadn’t. Too many perhaps. He stepped back from a group of young women blindly headed his way, nearly falling over a young man with overlarge ears and a high collar in the process. Face hot, he mumbled an apology before, trying to tamp down on his growing panic, he gripped his cane tight and looked about for where Mrs. Kitteridge might have disappeared to.
But she was already beside him, tucking her arm in his, steadying him. In more ways than just physically, he thought dazedly. He took a deep breath, aware of a deep easing of the tension within him. But he refused to look too closely at why he might react so strongly to her mere touch. He could only be grateful right then that he had a port in the storm at all.
“I admit,” she murmured as they made their way through the anteroom and into the long Ball Room, “that I underestimated how the improving weather would affect the turnout for tonight’s performance.”
He eyed the people askance as he maneuvered through the room beside her. “Are you certain this is wise?” he mumbled in her ear as they passed a group of matrons, who stared openly at him while whispering behind their fans. Thus far they’d confined themselves to afternoon visits and small gatherings of her close friends. They had certainly never tackled anything of this size. Not even remotely.
“Mayhap we should collect my mother and your grandmother and take our leave,” he continued a bit hoarsely, scanning the milling crowd for any sign of the two women. But no, those ladies had separated themselves from him and Mrs. Kitteridge the moment they’d alighted from the carriage and were now nowhere to be seen. No doubt they had already taken possession of the two seats specially reserved for the dowager viscountess in the front row on such occasions and he would not see them again until the performance was at an end.
“That is the last thing we should do,” Mrs. Kitteridge said with a bracing smile. “You admitted yourself that any of the vicar’s daughters or nieces would make a fine wife. As they’re performing tonight this will be the perfect opportunity to ingratiate yourself with them. Miss Emmeline Gadfeld is particularly enamored of music, and will no doubt look with favor on anyone who shows interest in her passion.”
“Much like Miss Pickering and her insects?”
She laughed softly. “And Miss Athwart and her parrot. And Miss Peacham and her baking.”
He found himself chuckling along with her. How did she do it? How did she put him at ease when by all rights he should be riddled with anxiety?
And yet she managed it. Just as she managed everyone around her, using the buoyant mood of the gathering to her advantage. She didn’t allow one person to linger overlong. There was no time for anyone to question him, as Mr. Pickering had, no chance for gawking and gaping. She was always smiling, resting her hand on his arm to show her ease with him, taking any undue attention away from him by asking each person a question that seemed highly catered toward them. And then, once that was done, she would spot another acquaintance and sweetly excuse them. As they walked away, she would lean in close to him and whisper some fact or other about the person in his ear, thereby cementing them in his memory.
“Mr. Juniper is quite the purveyor of fanciful teapots,” she murmured as they left that man behind. “He has an impressive collection of them displayed at his inn, the Master-at-Arms on The Promenade, if you’ve ever a mind to view them.”
