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Margery blinked. “Accompanying you, Gran.”
The dowager viscountess frowned. “Why?”
Before Margery could react—truly, Daniel didn’t have a clue how to react, either—his mother intervened. “Olivia, dear, perhaps Mrs. Kitteridge did not hear your plans when you were talking of them in the carriage.”
Lady Tesh pursed her lips and speared her granddaughter with a stern glare. “Let your mind wander again, did you? And you?” she demanded of Daniel, turning sharp eyes on him. “I suppose you didn’t hear me, either?”
How was it, he thought, panic setting in as she glared up at him, that one frail-looking elderly dowager viscountess could instill such terror in him? “Er—”
“Daniel, I thought I taught you to listen to your elders,” his mother reproached gently, though the faint humor in her eyes took away any sting that her words might have caused.
“Hmmph.” Lady Tesh turned back to her granddaughter, her disgust palpable. “Very well, since the two of you could not bother to listen to me the first time I mentioned it I shall repeat myself. I have sent word ahead to Miss Peacham at the Beakhead Tea Room to inform her that you will both be by this afternoon. Neither of you can possibly have any interest in what we’re about to discuss; no doubt you’ll be bored to tears. Now, go and have some refreshments, and take in some sea air after you’re done. Unless,” she continued with a sly look, “you’ve a mind to join us after our meeting with the Misses Athwarts for our excursion to the modiste’s. I could buy you some lovely pink gowns, Margery. Or mayhap green?”
Margery held up her hands before her grandmother had even stopped talking. “No, Gran, I’m fine with my wardrobe as it is.”
“Well, then,” Lady Tesh said, her frown back in place as she shooed her granddaughter off, “don’t keep us. Off with you both.” And with that she turned about and trailed after Miss Athwart.
For a moment Daniel and Margery stood staring in befuddlement after them. As one they turned to look at one another. And he nearly drowned in her eyes. It came flooding back to him then, the feel of her in his arms, her eager mouth opening under his, her tongue…
He nearly groaned at the memory. Holding his cane in front of himself, he motioned to the door with his free hand. “Shall we?” he muttered.
Seemingly flustered—had she been remembering yesterday as well?—she nodded in agreement and they exited the shop into the bright early-afternoon sunshine. It was an assault on his senses after the dim quiet of the circulating library, and he determinedly welcomed it, lifting his face to the sun, breathing in deeply of the fresh sea air. Anything to erase the remembrance of Margery at the tide pool. To his consternation, however, it only managed to re-create some of that setting, cementing the memory all the more.
Heaving a frustrated breath, he started off beside Margery down the long street that was Admiralty Row, to The Promenade and the Beakhead Tea Room.
Miss Peacham was there to welcome them, her face wreathed in smiles, her thick black hair wound about her head like a crown.
“Mrs. Kitteridge, Your Grace. How wonderful to see you again. Lady Tesh informed me of your intended arrival, and so I have saved you our best table.”
They were directed through the establishment, between small round tables topped with all manner of lace and fine linen and delicate porcelain pieces, straight to the table that the viscountess typically secured for herself. Larger than the others, accompanied by large chairs topped with plush blue and yellow cushions that matched the curtains in the bow window, it possessed an unencumbered view of The Promenade and the beach beyond, and the wide sea beyond all that.
“You would like the barberry ice, would you not, Your Grace?” Miss Peacham asked with a smile, her eyes dancing.
It was the perfect opening, he told himself, to expand on their conversation from the night of the musicale. The young proprietress would be a fine choice as his wife, after all, with her friendly, elegant manners.
And yet he could do no more than dredge up a weak smile and nod. Looking faintly confused, Miss Peacham nevertheless took their order and sailed off.
Leaving Daniel alone with Margery.
He frowned.Alonemay be overreaching; while the shop wasn’t empty, it still had a respectable showing of patrons happily sampling the delicious wares. Low conversation hummed and laughter rang out, the clink of silverware on porcelain joining in, the delectable scents of baked goods filling the air.
And yet, seated at this private table beside Margery, he felt as if they had been wrapped in a bubble. A tense, anxiety-ridden bubble, but a bubble all the same.
Margery must have felt it, too, for she cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. “I’m sorry for having been so distracted this morning. Here we had chances for you to get to know both Miss Athwart and Miss Peacham better and I failed spectacularly.”
He started. Was she really going to pretend everything had gone back to normal? Which, he supposed, they should if they were at all wise. They had only shared a kiss, after all. It had not been life-altering—or so he would continue to tell himself. Nor did it change the very real fact that he needed to marry, and preferably before the dreaded trip to London.
And yet he couldn’t help but resent that she had so quickly turned her back on it and fallen back into the details of their agreement.
“I don’t wish to know either of them better,” he growled before he could stop himself.
She glanced at him, startled. “You wish to take Miss Athwart and Miss Peacham from our list of prospective wives?”
He shook his head in agitation and blew out a frustrated breath. “I don’t wish to talk about the damn list at all right now.”
“But we have less than three weeks to find your duchess.”
“I can delay my trip to London.”
