Promises and Primroses

by Josi S. Kilpack

  When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against his. “Before we allow things to progress too far, I do have some stipulations.”

  “Why does this not surprise me?”

  She laughed, then went serious. “I like to bake my own bread in the mornings. Peter has allowed me to do so here, though his cook dislikes my being in her space. We have found our rhythm though, but I should not want to give that up.”

  “My cook cannot manage English cooking all that well anyway, so I do not think he will mind your baking bread. Anything else?”

  “My children must be welcome, and I must be free to be invested in their lives as much as they will allow me to. The wife of a nobleman such as yourself shall have expectations placed upon her, all of which I shall rise to my utmost abilities, but do not ask me to change who I have become. At my age, I do not think I could do it, even if I tried.”

  “Oh, my dear Amelia,” he said, running his thumb across her cheek. “It is who you have become that I have fallen in love with all over again.”

  She sat back so she could look him in the eyes. “Then I accept your proposal, Lord Howardsford. There is nothing that would please me more than becoming your wife.”

  “And joining me in my marriage campaign? I fear Peter may be the easiest to see settled.”

  “I am happy to be a lieutenant in the fight to save your family from themselves.”

  He said nothing, but kissed her again instead. She had never been so glad to be proven so very wrong. About Elliott, about Peter . . . about herself.

  A very big thank-you to my agent, Lane Heymont, of the Tobias Agency for inspiring this series idea and helping me develop the stories that would fit within it. Thank you to my critique group for helping me plot out the series: Ronda Hinrichsen (Unforgettable, Covenant, 2018); Becki Clayson; Jody Durfee (Hadley, Hadley Bensen, Covenant, 2013); and Nancy Campbell Allen (Kiss of the Spindle, Shadow Mountain, 2018); my beta reader Jennifer Moore (Miss Leslie’s Secret, Covenant 2017); and Whitney Schofield, my sister-in-law and resident canine expert.

  Thank you to Shadow Mountain for embracing the story and then helping it be better, specifically Heidi Taylor Gordon, production manager for the Proper Romance line; Lisa Mangum, editor extraordinaire; Heather Ward and Richard Erickson, both amazing designers; and Malina Grigg, skilled typographer. I am continually reminded that writing the story is only one part of the creative effort that goes into making it a book, and I appreciate everyone who makes that possible. Big thanks to my readers—without you I would have no reason to do what I love. I am a very lucky girl.

  Thank you to my kids for giving me a full and happy life, and my sweetheart, Lee, for the battles he fights for me, and for us, and for our family. Lee and I will celebrate twenty-five years of marriage this year, and I can’t imagine my life without him. For all of the above, and so much more, I thank my Father in Heaven, who has given me so much perspective, purpose, and patience.

  1. Despite thirty years and a happy life, Amelia still feels the pain of Elliott’s abandonment. Have you had similar instances in your life? If so, how have you found peace?

  2. Julia and Amelia have a complicated relationship. Who did you relate to better between the two women?

  3. Did you see elements of your own mother-daughter relationship in Julia and Amelia’s relationship?

  4. Do you feel that Peter used his dogs as a distraction after losing his first wife?

  5. Are you a dog person? Why or why not?

  6. Peter has lived under the shadow of his parents’ choices all his life. Have you ever been in a similar situation?

  7. How did you feel about Elliott’s marriage campaign at the start of this story? Did your feelings change regarding the marriage campaign by the end of the story?

  8. Which couple’s story did you find the most compelling?

  Thursday, March 14, 1822

  After two minutes of sitting, Timothy was on his feet, walking the perimeter of the drawing room and looking over each of the excellent paintings on the wall. He’d never been one to sit still very long. Miss Morrington’s father, Sir Wayne Morrington, had recently restored this house, so the corners were crisp and the design wonderfully modern. Sir Wayne had invested in gaslights back when other men turned their noses at the idea, and this house had been one of the first in London with the innovation. Had it not been the middle of the afternoon, the copper lamp hanging from the ceiling would have kept the lovely room bright. Sir Wayne had done very well for himself, to be sure, and though the ton might dismiss men of trade, when those men did as well as Sir Wayne had done, they opened their doors and forgot their prejudice.

  Timothy heard movement and turned to the doorway in time to see Maryann Morrington enter, her maid following behind. Miss Morrington’s sister, Deborah, must not be available to attend them today. The maid went straight to the chair in the far corner that Timothy suspected was there specifically for those poor servants who had to attend their charges through visits such as these. His mother had been a maid—a scandal that kept Timothy mindful of the very thin margin that separated him from the serving class.

  But life was too short and too beautiful to be spent thinking on the darker corners of things.

  Timothy amplified his smile and crossed the room to bow over Miss Morrington’s hand. He did not kiss her knuckles, but added a flourish and put his foot forward to exaggerate the bow. The dramatic gesture usually made girls giggle. But not Miss Morrington.

  “You look as lovely as the morning, Miss Morrington,” he said as he straightened.

  She blinked golden-brown eyes and pulled her eyebrows together so that a line showed between them. “The morning is quite gray, Mr. Mayfield.”

  “Is it?” Timothy glanced out one of the unusually large windows. Lovely windows, truly. The sky was indeed gray! He turned back to her and shrugged good-naturedly. “Well, the temperature is wonderfully mild. I did not even need my greatcoat, though I wore it all the same. Fancy a walk through Hyde Park so that I might prove that even a gray day can be lovely when one has good company?”

  Rather than clap her hands and run for her bonnet, Miss Morrington sat on one end of the green-and-yellow-striped settee.

  All right, then.

  Following her example, he sat in one of the green velvet chairs across from her, a round table between them. The fireplace had been lit, which made the temperature of the room very comfortable. “Sadly, I’ve a head cold and am therefore disinclined to go out.”

  He sobered. “Ah. I see. It is completely miserable to have a cold in spring. You have my condolences.” He refrained from adding that the upside was that she could lay abed and read all day as she recovered. Timothy loved to lay abed and read when he was under the weather. Not everyone appreciated his pointing out such silver linings when their spirits were low, however.

  She smiled, her already round cheeks plumping even more, but it wasn’t a happy smile. Poor girl must be feeling very poorly.

  “When do you think you might feel better?” Timothy asked when she did not add words to her response.

  There came that line between her brows again, and this time with a mild air of exasperation. Gracious, he’d only been in her company a minute and a half, and he was already wearing her thin. That did not bode well for him.

  “I have no idea when I might feel better, Mr. Mayfield.”

  Yes, that was frustration in her tone. Had he been rude?

  She folded her hands in her lap. “I’m afraid the malady did not check in with an expected date of expiration.”

  Timothy laughed and feigned a parry with an invisible sword. “Touché, Miss Morrington.” He assumed an exaggerated frown. “There are few things worse than a lingering illnesses. What might I do to help you feel better?”

  Her expression softened, and his spirits lifted in personal ­victory—Miss Morrington did not sm
ile easily. Perhaps because her mother had died only seven months ago. Or maybe because her father had not come to London with them. She must miss him. But that was all the more reason for her to seek out joy now that she was out of mourning. Besides, coaxing a smile from her was worth twice the victory as that from another debutant because it was so mindfully given.

  Suddenly inspired, Timothy jumped to his feet. “I have it,” he proclaimed, pointing at the ceiling. “I shall act out a scene for you, and you might apply your mind to guessing what scene it is. Would you like that, Miss Morrington?”

  Her expression froze somewhere between a scowl and a smile. “Act out a scene? What are you talking about, Mr. Mayfield?”

  He wagged his eyebrows and surveyed the room for props. He hurried toward a round vase and held it up toward the window, ignoring the slight gasp from the maid in the corner. He would not be distracted. He put his other hand on his chest and began to mouth the words and pantomime the actions associated with Hamlet’s soliloquy given to poor Yorick’s skull. Who did not adore Hamlet? Timothy attended plays as often as possible, and he had even acted a part in a production or two when he had been at Oxford.

  When he reached the midpoint of the pantomimed speech, he turned on his heel toward the other side of the room, then fell upon his knees as he silently begged the jester’s help in making his lady laugh. In the final moment, Timothy pulled the vase to his chest and bowed his head. He counted to three and then peered up at his audience of one.

  Miss Morrington was smiling and shaking her head. “Oh, Mr. Mayfield, you are a jester all your own.”

  “Jester?” Timothy repeated, putting one hand behind his ear and leaning toward her. “Is that your guess on this scene I have so expertly acted out for your benefit?”

  She laughed out loud this time, a short, punching laugh, almost like a man’s. He only just suppressed a shudder. He’d heard her laugh from afar but never up close. Most unfeminine.

  “You are Hamlet addressing Yorick, of course.”

  “Of course?” He got to his feet, adopting a stiff and offended posture while putting his free hand on his hip as though he were a fishwife. “Do not damage my pride by insinuating that any number of other suitors have come into this room and dazzled you with this display of this particular scene.”

  Her smile fell. He reviewed his words but could not guess where he had misspoken. “Have I said something amiss?” He took his hand from his hip to better fit the change of mood.

  “Suitors?” she repeated.

  That was what had drawn her attention? He’d all but stood on his head like a monkey and what caught her mind was the word “suitors”? He returned the vase to its place and sat back in the chair across from her. “That word upsets you?”

  “Not necessarily.” She shook her head, some girlish insecurity breaking through her usually confident demeanor.

  Timothy did not mind Miss Morrington’s advanced age of twenty-two, but he was still getting used to the difference between her more measured ways and those of the young debutants so eager to have a man’s attention. Those younger girls simpered and pouted and pranced without restraint—it was all rather exhausting. Miss Morrington, on the other hand, watched carefully, spoke slowly, and did not give many hints as to what she was thinking. She sniffled, and he fetched his handkerchief from the inside pocket of his coat and offered it to her.

  “Thank you,” she said as she took the proffered handkerchief and dabbed at her nose. In the meantime, that flash of insecurity he’d seen in her expression faded back into politeness. He literally watched as her back straightened and her chin came up, restoring her regal pose. She fit London and its manners very well and made those younger girls look rather silly. “Are you a suitor, Mr. Mayfield?”

  He felt as though to answer badly would end with a boot in his backside. Not her boot, of course, but her butler’s. In school, Timothy had often been singled out from his classmates after failing to keep quiet through a lecture. The teacher would demand Timothy repeat back the point of the lesson. Which, of course, Timothy had not heard because he had been engaged in a discussion with his neighbor about what games they might play after class.

  “Am I not a suitor, Miss Morrington?”

  She watched him a moment, then looked at his handkerchief in her hand. “I have not been certain whether your intentions were . . . specific or whether we were simply friends.”

  “Well, we are friends.” Timothy grinned wider than necessary in hopes to ease her worries. “But as I hear it, friends make the very best of suitors.” He winked and was rewarded with the tiniest pink of her full cheeks.

  “Are you a suitor because you have learned of my inheritance? I suspect it has been whispered about, despite my family’s attempts to keep it from the gossipmongers of the ton.” She glanced toward her maid, who gave her a sympathetic smile. Apparently, this had been a topic of discussion between the two of them.

  Timothy was unsure of the right way to answer. It was gauche to discuss money but rude to ignore a direct question.

  When he did not answer, Miss Morrington cocked her head to the side, held him with her golden-brown eyes, and spoke in a soft, but still strong, voice. “If you care for me at all, Mr. Mayfield, I would ask that you be honest. Are you are here because of my fortune?”

  He would not be any kind of gentleman, or friend, if he did not honor the sincerity of her question. Plus, Timothy was not a dishonest man. Fun-loving, overly optimistic, energetic, engaging, and silly to some, yes—but not dishonest. “I am here, first and foremost, because I am your friend.” He smiled, but she did not. “But I am also aware of your inheritance.”

  Her shoulders fell a bit. “From whom did you learn of it? Did Lucas tell you?”

  “No,” Timothy said. He did not want to cast doubt on his friend’s reputation. Not when Lucas was married to Maryann’s sister, Deborah. Lucas had been the one to introduce Timothy to Miss Morrington, which made Lucas an easy suspect in telling tales he had not told. “I regret to have to confirm that your inheritance has been quite the topic these last few weeks.”

  She smiled, which he hadn’t expected, but then she had been hard to read from the beginning. She would sometimes get angry when he expected her to laugh, and now she smiled when he thought she’d be upset. Women were mad. Heaven help the men who had to try to make sense of them and were flogged for their attempts. Not actual flogging, of course, metaphorical flogging. Timothy felt sure he’d suffered a couple of lashes already in this conversation, though he’d be hard-pressed to go back and find where he’d earned the punitive measures.

  “Thank you for your honest answer,” she said, in a tired voice. “I’ve had half a dozen gentlemen call upon me this last week, and I had wondered if my fortune might be the reason. I asked two others, and they assured me they did not know what I was talking about, but I knew they were hiding something. At least I no longer have to guess at the reasons behind their sudden interest.”

  Half a dozen? Timothy’s mouth went dry at the thought of that much competition. “It would be uncomfortable not to trust the motives of such visits.”

  She fixed him with those golden eyes again. “Yes, it has been. What, then, should I think of your motivation?”

  “Your boldness leaves me quite unbalanced, Miss Morrington.”

  She smiled again, but the expression was not entirely comfortable on her face. As though it covered a more honest expression she did not want to show him. “A woman of known fortune can hardly be blamed for boldness, Mr. Mayfield. Rather she would be a fool to be anything but bold. So is your motivation in calling on me as a suitor the same as the others? Are you in need of making a moneyed match?”

  Timothy squirmed in his chair. This was a most unexpected conversation. “You speak as though I have never called on you before. I’ve only learned of your inheritance a fortnight ago, and yet you and I have enjoyed one anoth
er’s company several times before that.”

  When Miss Morrington had first arrived in London several weeks ago, she was still in mourning, though she was wearing gray and not black. He’d first sought her company to please Lucas, who wanted Maryann to feel welcomed after leaving her home in Somerset for the season. She’d had her coming out when she was sixteen, but when her mother fell ill, she became her mother’s companion and caregiver for the next five years. After her mother passed last September, she could not put off the necessity of a season in London, but she had refused to end her mourning period until a full six months after her mother’s death. Though Maryann had attended society events those first weeks, she had not danced nor stayed past eleven o’clock. Timothy would seek her out at the events they both attended and had found her a good conversationalist and an excellent listener. At the Guthries’ ball last week, her first event out since ending her mourning period, he had made a point to be the first man to ask her to dance.

  And here he was today, calling on her as he’d promised to do that night.

  Miss Morrington held his eyes in such a way that he worried she knew exactly what he was charting out in his mind while she waited for his answer. Oh, rubbish. He cleared his throat and reminded himself that his primary goal in pursuing a wife was to not hurt anyone.

  “You ask if I am here because of your fortune, and I will tell you the truth.” He paused a moment. “I do consider us friends, Miss Morrington, but my more specific attention is indeed partly influenced by the fact that your circumstance could be a boon to my own.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise and he continued hurriedly, not wanting to lose his momentum or his courage.

  “I am without security, as I believe is also whispered about amid the ton: they track heiresses with the same ferocity as they track penniless men. I have always known I would need to marry a woman with means, and therefore I have kept my formal attentions focused in that way.” Her jaw hardened, but he hurried to speak before she could shred him. “However, if I possess no other attribute to offer a woman, let me assure you that I know my own mind and my own heart enough to know that I could never marry only for fortune. I will remain a bachelor all my life if the only other choice is a loveless marriage.”