CHAPTER TWO

The following morning, Delaney waited anxiously for Hershwell to bring the Post into the breakfast room. She had to know if the luckless meeting with Mr. Croft in the park was on everyone’s lips.

As she paced the floor, the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked buns drew her to the buffet. They looked delicious, all golden and glazed with icing. Her stomach growled, but she didn’t dare eat a thing until she knew—

“Miss Danvers and Lord Rathburn are engaged!” Bree announced, rushing in and flapping the paper at her. “And you never said a word.”

“Engaged?” Delaney blinked, nonplussed. Emma hadn’t said anything about being engaged earlier that week at their needlework circle.

Bree drew in a quick breath and grinned from ear to ear. “You didn’t know.”

Delaney wanted to deny it—oh, how she wanted to—but instead, she kept quiet and reached for the paper.

The devil’s spawn—or Bree McFarland, to the rest of the world—quickly hid the Post behind her back. “It serves you right. After all, you never said a word about Penelope Weatherstone’s condition. I had to find out from our cousin, Elena, and she was only too happy to gloat over me.”

“Since you are not part of our coterie”—Delaney stepped toward her and wondered if she could get away with paddling her sister with the serving spoon—“I had little reason to tell you of the upcoming birth of their child.”

“Miss McFarland!” Miss Pursglove admonished from the doorway. “It is unseemly to speak of such things at breakfast or any other time.” Her sharp gaze closed in on the hand hovering over the silver service on the buffet.

Begrudgingly, Delaney lowered her hand. “Are young women meant to pretend that their parents found them in baskets on the doorstep? Surely I am allowed to speak of such matters to my sister, who is old enough to be out in society.”

“Your mother has that right, but you do not.”

Delaney did her best to hold her temper in check and offered a stiff nod. She’d made a promise to her mother, after all.

It had been more than a year ago since Mother had come into her room to say good-bye.

“Take care of your sister while I’m away,” her mother said after a short embrace. She withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed the tears from the corners of her eyes. All the while, Bree’s sobs echoed down the hall. “She’s too much like me, I fear, and prone to heartbreak.”

Somehow, Delaney had managed to conceal her own sadness and disappointment. She’d already known that her mother wouldn’t return before her debut. The arguments she’d overheard between her parents had been her first clue.

“You are stronger than she is,” her mother continued, reaching out to brush the backs of her fingers across Delaney’s cheek. “The way you handle yourself around your father and that horrid woman he hired makes me see how much you’ve grown these past few years. You, my dear girl, are ready to make a match, because I know you are too clear-sighted to fall prey to my weakness of the heart.”

In other words, Delaney knew better than to believe a man would want her for any reason aside from her fortune.

Stark reality drew her out of the memory. Unlike her mother, Delaney was determined to set the course for her own life.

Now, with Bree distracted and likely wondering if her lapse in decorum would earn a reprimand, the paper went slack in her hand. Delaney snatched it, unconcerned by the reproachful tsk from Miss Pursglove.

Immediately, she sought the society column. As her gaze skimmed over the latest news, she let out a sigh of relief. No mention of Mr. C—or Miss M—in the park. The way Emma and Rathburn’s engagement announcement appeared, it was no wonder. It looked, for all the world, as if the Dowager Duchess of Heathcoat had designed the match herself. If ever there was news, this was it.

She cast a longing glance at the iced buns and sighed. First things first; she must assemble her friends to uncover the mystery of Emma’s sudden betrothal.

And straightaway after that, she absolutely must decline the Crofts’ invitation. It was a matter of dire importance. Her future was at stake.

Griffin caught a whiff of gingerbread and smiled. Their cook, Mrs. Shortingham, knew it was his favorite. Glad that she’d remembered his birthday, he descended the servants’ stairs to the kitchen. By the time he arrived, however, one of the sculleries told him that the very last of the gingerbread had been sent to his mother’s parlor.

The last of it sent to the parlor on his birthday? He didn’t believe it for an instant. It must be a ruse. No doubt, his sisters and mother were preparing to jump out at him shouting a boisterous “Happy birthday!”

Normally, he detested surprises, but as long as gingerbread awaited him, he could endure anything.

Wasting no time, he went to the parlor. But when he opened the door, he found another surprise altogether. Miss McFarland stood on the edge of the carpet.

Something inside him jumped.

Even though her back was to him, there was no mistaking that auburn hair. While her attire was likely the first star of fashion and perfectly in order, her hair was a different matter altogether. As it had been when their paths had crossed in the park, she wore it tied into a chaotic sort of queue that went midway down her back. The ends of a fat periwinkle ribbon knotted with the curls. Absently, he wondered if she would brush out the tangles as soon as she returned home or if she would wait until the end of the evening when she was in bed . . .

The errant thought startled him. The last thing he expected to imagine was the infamous Miss McFarland in such an intimate setting. She wasn’t the sort that typically incited a man’s lust. A man wanted curves he could mold with his hands and a mouth he could plunder. As he’d noted yesterday, Miss McFarland possessed a rather small bosom and mouth. Small and yet . . . captivating.

Gradually, the strands of the conversation he’d walked in on drew his attention, providing him momentary relief.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate meeting with you today and beg forgiveness for dropping by unannounced,” the tousled Miss McFarland said, shaking his mother’s hand. “I simply felt it was a matter of urgency and wanted to explain in person.”

This piqued his interest. What pressing matter could have brought her here, of all places?

“Of course, dear.” His mother patted her hand, not once revealing his presence in the doorway. “But as I said, I think that event has long been forgotten.”

Ah. Now he understood.

“You are too kind. After coming here today to decline an invitation, I feel as if I don’t deserve the warm welcome you’ve given me. Even though an hour has passed, it seemed mere minutes to me,” Miss McFarland offered graciously. “Not to mention, I don’t think I’ve ever been in a more cheerful parlor. The colors you’ve chosen are so inviting that I find it difficult to take my leave.”

“With such praise, I might have to insist you stay until supper,” his mother said with a laugh.

This exchange brought to mind the list his sisters had mentioned yesterday, of all the ways a young woman invites a man’s attention. Something to do with remarking on the mother’s sense of style to earn an invitation. Then, there was also the compliment she’d given him about his skillful bonnet rescue. He stared, baffled. Did Miss McFarland have marital designs on him? No. It couldn’t be true.

“Thank you again for the fine cake,” Miss McFarland said. “It was the most delicious confection I’ve ever had. I do hope your cook will share the recipe with mine someday soon.”

“I’ll ask Mrs. Shortingham to send it this afternoon.” His mother beamed. “It’s Griffin’s favorite as well.”

Distracted, only now did he notice the empty platter and the dark crumbs on the six plates scattered on tables about the room. Apparently, gingerbread was a favorite of his sisters too. Was that truly was the last of it? On his birthday? His stomach grumbled in protest.

“Isn’t that right, dear?” his mother asked, acknowledging him for the first time.

“Mr. Croft!” Miss McFarland turned so swiftly that her skirts bumped into the low table, knocking over a blue vase of daffodils. Golden flowers shot out amidst a spray of water as the vase clattered against the serving fork, sending it on a path toward a bowl of frothy whipped cream. The bowl turned end over end, splattering cream along the way until it finally ended up facedown on the carpet.

“Blast,” she cursed under her breath.

For reasons beyond his understanding, he took unaccountable delight in startling Miss McFarland. Stranger still, he found himself beguiled and intrigued by her. As he knew from the moment they’d met, Delaney McFarland was a catastrophe waiting to happen. Why this pleased him today, when it certainly hadn’t before, he had no idea.

He sprang into action and rounded the table just as Miss McFarland bent down. She was frantically putting the flowers back into the vase and even trying to capture the water as the apologies tumbled from her lips.

“Mrs. Croft, I’m so sorry. How dreadful. After such a lovely hour—”

“Don’t worry about it, dear. These things happen.” His mother bent to rub a hand over Delaney’s shoulder before she moved to the door. However, he knew that if any of his sisters had said blast within his mother’s hearing—which was any room in the house—she wouldn’t look nearly so cheerful. “I’ll see if I can find a damp cloth for the cream.”

Griffin stared after his mother’s retreating figure, curious as to why she wouldn’t simply summon a maid as she’d done for the entirety of his life, especially since mishaps like this happened every day.

When he lifted the bowl and saw a mound of cream on the carpet, he was at a loss for what to do. The best thing, he supposed, was to put the cream back into the bowl. He scooped up as much as he could with his hand, but it began to liquefy almost instantly.

“Your hands must be too warm,” Miss McFarland said at the same time the thought occurred to him. “Perhaps the serving fork . . .”

They reached for it at the same time, his hand on the tines and hers on the hilt. Their gazes collided, and the shock of it tore through him like a bolt of lightning striking the ground at his feet. He was suddenly quite aware of the hole left behind.

He’d always thought Miss McFarland’s eyes were a darker shade of blue, but he’d been wrong. They were violet, dark and lush like the petals of the same flower. And her hair wasn’t what he’d supposed either. He thought it merely auburn, but now he saw that the wildly curling tendrils varied from a pale gold flame, to bright sunburst, to robust red, and then to dark, rich brown.

“Your eyes are blue and brown, swirled together like . . . lake water,” she said, before her eyes widened with shock, as if only now realizing she’d spoken aloud. Abruptly, she released the fork and returned to arranging the flowers. He missed the contact immediately. “I thought they were either one or the other. I couldn’t tell from a distance.” Her tone was matter-of-fact now, and it made him grin. Perhaps she was just as shaken as he.

“Lake water . . .” He couldn’t let it go, not when he saw the palest pink tinge her cheeks to the same hue of her lips. “That’s rather poetic. I suppose you’d compare my hair to a chestnut mane?”

She was thoroughly engrossed in her task, plucking one flower from the front of the vase and placing into the center. “More like freshly turned earth, if you must know. The color is darker toward the roots with streaks of sun bleached brown at the tips.”

Another jolt tore through him at the elemental undertone of her description. His mind conjured an image of fire cleansing freshly turned earth in preparation for planting—flames licking, like tendrils of hair caught in the wind; consuming, like eager, ravenous mouths; undulating, like bare limbs in the throes of ecstasy, while violet eyes stared up at him . . .

Griffin was suddenly aware of a growing arousal.

Just then, Tess bounded into the room and immediately rectified that situation. “Mother sent me to ask if you’d like Cook to bake another gingerbread . . . since it’s your birthday, after all. She also wanted to know if you’d like to invite a guest for supper this evening before the musicale. Oh, hullo, Delaney.”

Miss McFarland offered a smile. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Tess. That yellow frock is quite becoming on you.” Then as his sister beamed and plucked at the ruffles on her skirt, Miss McFarland turned her focus on him, her violet gaze round with unease. “My errors in coming here seem to be increasing by the moment. We ate your special cake.”

That she should worry he was now in want of gingerbread stirred a pleasant warmth within him. “Mrs. Shortingham will make another.”

She pressed her lips together. “I made a mess of the parlor.”

“Only the center,” he teased but found his gaze returning to her small pink mouth, as if oddly fascinated by the shape and color. Although as far as he could tell, there was nothing particularly remarkable in either. It simply captured his attention the way a candle flame might. “The corners are still quite tidy.”

“Nevertheless, I’m certain that I’m the very last person you wanted to see today,” she said and straightened, smoothing down the front of her skirts. “Please accept my wishes for the merriest of birthdays.”

He straightened as well, desiring to adjust the front of his cutaway and waistcoat but his hands were too sticky. “Would you like an invitation to supper this evening?”

She shook her head so abruptly that some men might have taken offense. “And again, my unexpected presence has put you and your family in an awkward situation. For that, I’m truly sorry and for everything else as well.” She turned to Tess. “Please tell your mother that, while her invitation was most gracious, I have a previous engagement this evening.”

His sister shrugged and turned, skipping down the hall to where their mother likely waited in the next room, listening to every word.

“I don’t understand you, Miss McFarland,” he said, studying her with new interest. “Last Season, I was nearly convinced you went out of your way to ensure that we were never seen in the same place, to avoid association to the—”

“The incident,” she supplied quickly. “That is the only delicate way to refer to what happened at my debut, Mr. Croft.”

He grinned at the haughty way she addressed him, saying Mr. Croft as if accusing him of a wrongdoing or misbehavior. “Then, a year after the incident, I cannot go three steps without running into you. Why, you practically laid your bonnet at my feet yesterday, daring me to pick it up.”

Her lips parted on a gasp, offering him a flash of her pink tongue. “I did no such thing. It was the wind and nothing—I repeat, nothing—more.”

A bit of deviltry flared to life within him. Now, he wanted to hear her haughty address again. He wanted to goad her into those three syllables. “Yet you came here to spare my mother’s feelings and then stayed long enough to encourage her, praising her in a way that gave every indication of your interest in her son.”

“Mr. Croft!”

He felt her admonition cover him, tightening the flesh over his bones. He could feel heat radiate from each drop of blood in his veins, feel the length of each hair on his body. His follicles contracted—released—contracted with those three syllables out of her small pink mouth.

Mis-ter Croft.

Something flashed in her gaze, like a sudden spark to gunpowder. For an instant, the violet in her irises brightened to pale lavender. She drew in a breath before she continued, her voice low and calm. “You are mistaken, sir. While I mean this as no insult, either to your person or to your family, the plans for my future in no way involve you. Good day.”

Even though she was quick to leave, he knew he could catch her if he wanted to. However, he still had damnably sticky cream on his hands, in addition to a strange bruising around his ego. He had little doubt she’d meant what she said about her future not involving him. Yet he hadn’t a clue why it bothered him.

On the drive home, Delaney decided that she was going to kill Bree. It was her fault, after all—at least every iota of disaster she’d experienced in these past two days. If it hadn’t been for her sister, she never would have made such a fool of herself in front of Mr. Croft. Again.

Of course, she had to cast some of the blame on him too. Everything had been fine until his sudden appearance in the doorway. Then, everything went completely, utterly wrong. The table, the flowers, the cream, the comment about his eyes . . . oh, why did her mouth run so often without the intervention of her brain?

It wasn’t her fault. It was his, for making her uncharacteristically nervous. She was never nervous, or prone to fits of blushing, for that matter. Yet she’d distinctly felt a surge of heat rush to her cheeks. Blast it all!

The conceited, arrogant, contemptible man had had more than his share of amusement at her expense too.

The only thing that had not turned into a complete catastrophe was the simple fact that the entire ordeal hadn’t taken place in a public venue. Thankfully, with Emma’s recent engagement to Lord Rathburn in the Post, the ton had more interesting things to talk about—at least for now.

How long could that last? Not long, she was sure.

Delaney drew in a breath. During moments like this, she became more and more focused on her plan to marry by the end of the Season. All she needed was to find a gentleman who agreed to her terms. After all, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find someone who wanted her for her fortune and nothing more.