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But that did not make it any less imperative that he forge forward. He tried to recall all the reasons he’d thought her the ideal candidate for a wife during those horrible hours after Gregory had left Seacliff the day before: She was serious, and focused, and used to looking at disturbing creatures all day long. And she did not appear to have a sentimental bone in her body. All of the Gadfeld girls were sweet things, and one or two seemed perhaps to be receptive. But they all had stars in their eyes, and he did not want a sentimental wife who would hope one day for more than a business arrangement. Miss Denby made his head spin with her fast talking. Miss Peacham had shown in small ways she would have no patience for him distancing himself, and as well seemed disinclined to move on from the Beakhead Tea Room or her life here. And Miss Athwart of the Quayside Circulating Library—and her bird—frightened him nearly witless. No, Miss Pickering was the perfect candidate.
Why, then, could he not summon the necessary enthusiasm for courting her?
An easy enough question to answer, he thought despondently as his gaze once more slid to Margery, seated close to Mr. Pickering. She was valiantly joining the man in a lively discussion—on Mr. Pickering’s side, at least—on the benefits of sailing, as the man had recently purchased himself a small skiff.
But his infatuation with her was not doing him a bit of good where Miss Pickering was concerned. He looked to the girl, who was once more using the small item on the chain about her neck—a delicate magnifying glass, he saw now—to peer at something on the sand beside her. Clearing his throat, he shifted his leg into a more comfortable position—no easy thing, reclining as he was on this blasted blanket in the sand—and leaned closer to her.
“Are you finding any interesting insects today?”
She blinked owlishly at him before looking down to the scone still in his hand. “You have not eaten your scone.”
“Ah, er, no. My apologies.” With that he took a large bite. Which perhaps had not been the wisest course of action, as he now had a mouthful of dry crumbs to contend with. Valiantly chewing, he finally managed to get the thing down. All the while she watched him, her eyes huge behind her spectacles. Much like those insects she was so fond of.
“You don’t care for it,” she said when he’d finished and washed it down with a generous gulp of lemonade.
“No, it’s very good,” he lied.
She pursed her lips. “I did tell Mother it wasn’t wise to have me bake. We have a perfectly good cook, after all, who could have done a much better job at it. But she was under the assumption you would appreciate the effort.”
Ah, God. She had baked them, had she? He was suddenly deliriously happy that any wife of his would not have to cook. Ever.
“I do appreciate the effort,” he assured her.
Mrs. Pickering spoke up then. “Ah, yes, our sweet Bronwyn is quite the homemaker. I daresay, Your Grace, she would make any man a fine wife.”
As comments went, it was about as transparent as glass what the woman was attempting to convey. How lucky for her, Daniel thought grimly, that he was already of a mind to court her daughter.
“You are so very right, my dear Mrs. Pickering,” her husband declared, his conversation with Margery apparently at an end. “I daresay it will break my heart to see her marry and leave our home. She is so accommodating, so generous, always thinking of others.”
The girl in question appeared not to hear her loquacious father, as she was already immersed in sketching out the long, spindly legs of some creature in her notebook. But from the way her mouth tightened at the corners he rather thought she was far more affected by the man’s heaping of praise on her head than she let on—though not at all in a positive way.
Perhaps, Daniel mused, that might work in his favor where the girl was concerned.
“Miss Pickering,” he said. “Might I tempt you in a walk down the beach?”
Once more those overlarge eyes landed on him, though this time a healthy dose of annoyance was present in them. Before he could react, she sighed mightily and placed her sketchbook aside. “Very well,” she said with little grace, rising with impressive quickness.
He, unfortunately, was not so quick. But he finally managed to get to his feet and, offering his arm to the girl, they started down the beach together. Though he didn’t know what he should be prouder of: his ability to rise with little embarrassment in front of a prospective bride, the fact that she looked at him with a lack of disgust—though there was a decided lack of interest as well—or that he had not looked Margery’s way as he carefully guided Miss Pickering away from the small group. No matter how much he wanted to.
***
Margery determinedly kept her gaze from straying to Daniel and Miss Pickering as they strolled down the beach arm in arm. This was a good thing, she told herself bracingly. The wheel had been set in motion. The young lady, while not particularly exuberant—or even remotely thrilled—about the potential of a duke courting her, seemed nevertheless receptive in a reluctant kind of way. Margery rather thought Daniel would have no trouble getting Miss Pickering to accept him once he finally got up the nerve to propose. It was a huge relief; with the clock ticking relentlessly toward the blackmailer’s deadline, she should be able to breathe a bit easier, now that Daniel had made his choice and was one step closer to securing the hand of his duchess.
And the relief was there, easing the band about her chest. Why, then, did she also feel like crying?
“They make a fine couple, don’t they?” Mrs. Pickering gushed. She clasped her hands to her ample bosom, staring after her offspring with glowing eyes that could not fail to hide the greedy gleam in them. “Oh, Mr. Pickering, look at how well our daughter looks on the duke’s arm.”
“She does, my dear. She does.” Spearing a square of cheese with his knife, he brought it to his mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully for a moment while giving Margery a considering look. “What think you, Mrs. Kitteridge?”
She knew what he was asking: Were the duke’s attentions serious? Was this the signal they had waited for to tell them they had landed him, and that their daughter was to be a duchess? It was the perfect opening she needed to help guide this whole endeavor to a satisfying conclusion.
Yet the words stuck in her throat. Why? She didn’t want him for herself.
She didn’t.
She dredged up a bright smile. “You’re quite right that Miss Pickering looks lovely on his arm. They make an attractive couple.”
As she expected, the words had an instantaneous effect on Mr. Pickering. “Splendid, splendid,” he said in such a tone that Margery would not have been surprised if he had begun to rub his hands together in glee.
