My dear Miss Athwart,” Lady Tesh said with a wide smile as their party entered the Quayside Circulating Library. “I do hope the duchess and I are not late.”
Daniel might have smiled at the viscountess’s abrupt about-face; after all, just seconds ago she had been simultaneously berating the driver for taking too long to reach town, ordering Miss Denby in the proper handling of Freya—Mouse had been banned from the excursion, poor, heartbroken thing, a fact that Daniel could only be grateful for, as the beast had not lost his interest in Daniel’s…nether regions—and snapping at some young gentlemen loitering on the walkway.
But after the debacle at the tide pool yesterday with Margery—naturally she was Margery to him now, and could be nothing else—he was having difficulty in focusing on anything else. Why the hell had he kissed her?
Miss Athwart’s approach blessedly distracted him from further distressing reminiscence. He had met the three Athwart sisters, proprietresses of the circulating library, during his first visit the week before. All were highly eligible, if odd, young ladies. Miss Seraphina Athwart, the eldest, was the sternest of the trio. Her equally stern pet, a green-and-red parrot, was perched on her shoulder, giving her the faint air of a pirate captain.
Pushing her overlarge spectacles up her nose and bringing her piercing gaze into focus, she nodded to the dowager viscountess and his mother. “Of course you’re not late, my lady.” She greeted them all in turn, then turned back to Lady Tesh, her brusque greetings completed before anyone had a chance to reply in kind. “My sisters have just set up tea in preparation of our discussion.”
“Discussion?” Margery frowned at her grandmother. “What discussion is Miss Athwart referring to, Gran?”
Lady Tesh gave the proprietress a fond smile. “Why, Miss Athwart had the most cunning idea for a pamphlet extolling the glories of the Isle. Our previous booklet is sadly out-of-date, and she thought it was time to modernize it. I have agreed to finance her endeavor. The duchess and I are set to discuss the details now.”
Margery shot Daniel a guarded look before turning back to smile at Miss Athwart. “Perhaps you might postpone for a few minutes? His Grace was quite interested in talking with you on the merits of owning a parrot such as your dear Phineas.”
Instead of gaining the woman’s interest, as Margery had no doubt intended, however, Miss Athwart shot him a condescending look. The bird, too, eyed Daniel with a certain amount of sharpness. “Parrots are not for the hobbyist, Your Grace,” the woman said. “They are much more than a mere pet, or a decoration or oddity you wish to lay claim to, to be brought out when the amusement strikes you. I will, of course, be quite happy to talk to you another time. Though I daresay anything I might have to impart would dissuade you quite thoroughly. For now, this pamphlet is of utmost importance. It is imperative we showcase Synne’s superior features. I will never understand,” she continued, shooting a frustrated glare out the shop window to Admiralty Row beyond, “why Brighton is so popular. We’ve a much more pleasant position, in my opinion. Just because some rotund Regent has decided to build his Pavilion there?” She made an aggravated little sound. Her parrot puffed up its feathers and mimicked the sound, as if in agreement with its mistress.
“Too true,” Lady Tesh chimed in, her perturbed expression a mirror of the young lady’s. And the parrot’s as well, if Daniel was being honest.
He saw in that moment just why the two women, from such different ages and backgrounds, seemed to share such a camaraderie. For, as frightening as it was, they were alike as any two people he had ever seen.
“Shall we, my lady, Your Grace?” Miss Athwart said in her no-nonsense way, motioning to a rich blue brocade curtain at the back of the shop.
They all started off together, Margery and Daniel bringing up the rear. Suddenly Lady Tesh stopped and turned to her granddaughter.
“Where are you going?”
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. Alone may 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.”
“But I cannot delay,” she cried. Her sudden gasp, the hasty hand she clapped over her mouth, reminded him that she was in dire need of the funds she would get from assisting him, apparently in a very specific amount of time. And he as yet didn’t know why she was so desperate for them.
He narrowed his eyes. “Are you in trouble?”
She paled, her typically rosy complexion turning a sickly green as her gaze slid from his. “I can find you a wife within the time we agreed upon” was all she said. And then, in a bright tone that had a brittleness to it, “Oh, how lovely; our order is here.”
He ached to know what the devil was wrong. It was both a blessing and a curse, really, that they had been interrupted. While he wanted to help her in any way he could, he knew that asking her to confide in him would open up an emotional intimacy between them that he was not looking to have.
Damn Erica for hurting him. Damn himself for allowing her to hurt him so. He should have known that a woman as beautiful and polished as her, a woman who had been made for the glittering London scene, would never love someone as awkward as he. But he had been fooled by her attempts to get him alone, by her shy proclamations of affection, by her kisses. When all along she had been playing him as expertly as her pianoforte.
But he would not allow himself to be fooled again, and would most certainly not allow himself to be hurt again. Which was exactly why this cold advancement to matrimony was so very necessary.
As they ate she chattered with an almost manic busyness that fairly made his head ache. And every bit of her one-sided conversation was centered on the damn list of prospective brides. The Gadfelds, she said, would surely agree to an invitation to tea at Seacliff, where he could show Miss Emmeline the rose garden. And did he have chickens back at Brackley Court that he could discuss with her? Miss Denby, while constantly made busy by Lady Tesh, would surely enjoy his company in the morning again when she took her private time to walk Mouse. And perhaps on this occasion Margery might accompany them, the better to get Mouse away from his…ahem, person…so he might better secure the young lady’s focus on him. There was a ball, too, in just a few days; mayhap he might secure Miss Peacham for a set. And while she knew he did not dance, he could sit with the young lady and talk, surely. Miss Pickering’s parents had invited them on a picnic; while the young lady would no doubt be ever watchful for her beloved insects, mayhap he might assist her. She was certain they could get Miss Athwart away from her beloved circulating library, though she doubted they would be as lucky to separate her from her parrot. And did he mind the creature? It could be rude at times, but she was certain it didn’t bite. At least, not unduly hard.
Daniel ate, and drank, and sat in increasingly morose silence. Because the more she spoke, the more he realized that no matter which of the young ladies he pictured himself with, he could not see himself kissing them as he’d kissed Margery.
Why not marry her, then?
The thought came with a suddenness that left him breathless. Marry Margery? No, she had declared she would never remarry. Yet now that the idea had taken hold it would not let him go. And he realized it made perfect sense. He desired her. And she had kissed him, with a surprising enthusiasm. She had mentioned more than once that she didn’t mind his scars.
Really, he was surprised it hadn’t come to him sooner.
Just then she took a sip of her tea—no doubt she was parched from the constant stream of words that had poured from her mouth over the past half hour. Knowing there would not be a better time, and that he might lose his nerve if he thought on it any longer, he blurted, “Why don’t you marry me?”