Before long, he was escorting her back to her mother. Christine had disappeared, and he had every intention of doing the same before he could be tricked into another dance.
But somehow, he’d only taken his leave of Mrs. Raleigh and her four daughters when a Mrs. Quinsy appeared with a niece, and as the girl looked rather terrified of her aunt’s attempts to push them onto the floor, Harry asked her to stand up with him.
An hour passed from the time Harry saw Miss Ames first enter the room, and four partners had come and gone with him onto the floor. The room had grown unbearably hot and Harry’s temples thrummed with the beginnings of a headache. He returned his latest partner to her father’s side and hurried away as fast as politeness allowed.
His desire to see Miss Ames, when she absolutely must be upset with him, warred with his pride. Why seek her out? He did hope to obtain some measure of forgiveness. He hadn’t exactly spoken to her as a gentleman. She hadn’t been offensive. Not truly. And certainly not purposefully.
He went to the windows, hoping to find one open enough to snatch a breath of cool night air. But Harry had only made it a few steps that direction when a ripple of periwinkle blue caught his eye.
Changing course, Harry made for Miss Ames’s place near the door.
She cannot be leaving already. He quickened his step. There must still be an hour left to the ball.
The curate stood near her, bent in half to speak almost directly into her ear. Was the man on more familiar terms with her than friendship?
Harry scowled but hurriedly smoothed his expression when Miss Ames turned. She saw him coming and stilled, her face betraying nothing of her thoughts.
“Miss Ames,” he said when he came within an easy distance. “Tell me you are not leaving. We have yet to dance.”
If she was confused by his words, the woman did a fine job of not showing it. “Mr. Devon, good evening.” She curtsied, reminding him of his rudeness. He hastily bowed. “We are not leaving yet.”
We? Did she mean her father and herself, or the curate? Harry turned to look at the fellow, taking in the man’s somber attire and solemn countenance. He certainly wore a more humble appearance than Harry. Did that give him greater favor in Miss Ames’s eyes?
Why did it matter?
“I do not believe we have been introduced,” Harry said, then cleared his throat. He’d sounded less than amiable. Hopefully no one else noticed his tone. Or thought he only spoke firmly to be heard over the sounds over the room. Or—
“Oh, forgive me.” Miss Ames gestured to the man at her side. “Mr. Devon, might I present Mr. Haskett, our curate. He has been assisting my father with his duties for several months now.”
“Six.” Mr. Haskett bowed. “A pleasure to at last make your acquaintance, Mr. Devon. The people of Annesbury village and Kettering speak most highly of your family.”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “Thank you, Mr. Haskett.” He tried to remember the man’s last sermon, to find something to speak upon, and failed. Oh well. Best get to the point. “I hope you will not think less of the family when I ask to steal Miss Ames away. If she will have me, I would like to secure her hand for the next set.”
Miss Ames blinked once, as though surprised, but then nodded with more enthusiasm than he’d hoped for. “Yes, of course, Mr. Devon. Thank you.”
He barely glanced at Haskett as he reached for her hand. It was the same hand she’d injured that she laid in his. They started threading their way to a starting position for the dance. “How is the injury?” he asked, lowering his voice so as not to be overheard.
Her fingers tightened around his briefly, and her chin dipped low. “Much better, thank you.” She stepped into the line for the dance, several feet across from him. “You have been dancing all evening, Mr. Devon. I hope you are not too tired for this.”
Harry listened to the starting lines of the music. “I am not even certain which dance this is.”
To his surprise, this elicited a laugh from her. The gentleman at his right heard the comment and gave him a look of commiseration. “They do all blend together, don’t they? It’s a reel, reel of six,” he said.
“Thank you,” Harry said, nodding to him. “I am in your debt, sir.”
“Robert Ellsworth.” The man nodded back, then stepped forward to take his partner’s hand. Harry turned back to Miss Ames, waiting another measure before doing the same.
“Mr. Ellsworth rescued you, it would seem,” she said as they stepped around in a circle, her amusement still in her eyes. “You would ask a lady to dance without knowing what it requires of you?”
Harry didn’t bother to hide his grin as he retook his place. “Do the steps really matter so long as I engage the partner of my choice?” Her eyebrows lifted and she turned away, walking around Mr. Ellsworth’s partner to take his hand briefly. When they had the ability to speak again, as he promenaded a few steps down the line with her, she finally answered.
“I cannot make you out, Mr. Devon. Are you flirting with me?”
He felt the tips of his ears growing warm again. “Do you find the idea offensive, Miss Ames?”
She narrowed her eyes at him and stood still, waiting for her turn to move again. “No, I find it unnecessary.”
His heart sunk, but he forced himself to smile. “Can we not be friends?” He stepped forward and took her hand, leading her to bow to another couple, then back to their places.
Although she didn’t deny his request outright, her brow furrowed and the corners of her mouth turned downward. “Friends?”
It is an absurd request. What gentleman asks friendship of a young woman he barely knows? Apparently, gentlemen such as Harry did so. He wanted, very much, to understand Augusta Ames. She was kind and clever. She didn’t care for his wealth, so far as he could tell, and spoke to him with such a candid manner he never quite knew what she would say next. Her thoughtful gray eyes were at odds with her bright smiles.
He’d enjoy flirting with her, of that there was no question, but perhaps befriending her would satisfy his curiosity. For a time.
After they’d moved through another round of stepping around couples, changing partners, and stood facing each other again, she finally spoke.
“I suppose friendship is well and good. But no more flirting, Mr. Devon.” She fixed him with a stern expression, her eyes dark as thunderclouds.
“Agreed. Of course.” Harry nodded solemnly and they joined hands again. The moment felt like the first victory of a war, with the promise of more skirmishes to come. He oddly looked forward to more such battles.
The music closed and Harry waited with her for the next song to begin. When he heard the first strains of music pronouncing the dance a waltz, satisfaction suffused him that he’d secured Miss Ames for the entire set. He grinned at her, and she narrowed her eyes at him.
At least he could claim innocence in choosing a set with a waltz.
Chapter Eight
Though a week had passed since the assembly ball, Daisy still found herself humming the strains of the waltz she’d danced with Mr. Devon. The incorrigible man had fought a smile through every step, which amused and annoyed her in equal parts. Why he insisted on a relationship of any sort with her, she could not understand.
Today she had risen early to get as much work done as she could. Though she wasn’t a fine lady, she still kept a day each week set aside for receiving visitors. Many of the parishioners would come by for a short time, paying their respects to her due to her father’s position.
There would hopefully be a few among them who would listen to her plans for the local school she wished to provide for the girls of the village and farm. While she was capable of beginning the school with nothing more than her wits, it would be better to provide slates and writing implements for the children, and a book or two more than she had. Not to mention the support she would need within the community to help encourage parents to send their children to learn.
“The only book those girls need to worry
about learning from is the Bible,” her father had said. “There will be little enough cause for them to read or understand other texts.”
Although Daisy disagreed with her father, she refrained from arguing with him. Hopefully, there were others among the village who would feel similarly to her.
Before the guests arrived, she helped Mrs. Worth put the finishing touches on sweets and she tidied the parlor. Humming as she dusted, and stepping around the furniture as though around couples in a row of dancers, Daisy smirked at her own silliness, then executed a twirl just to feel her skirts lift from her ankles.
Mr. Devon might be a little odd, but he was also kind. Perhaps he is lonely and only wants a friend. She could well imagine it so. Though he had his sister and her family nearby, he hadn’t spent enough time in the area to have formed many close acquaintances of his own age. He may even be restless, staying in one place for so long.
After finishing with her dusting, Daisy went in search of a basket, garden sheers, and her gloves. Fixing a broad-brimmed straw hat to her head, she went out the front door in search of any wayward blooms or greenery that might decorate her table.
There were flowers near the lane. Her mother had planted asters and dahlias years ago. The showy dahlias were in bright bloom, but Daisy much preferred the little purple asters with a few sprigs of waving grasses. They didn’t last very long indoors, but they would do for the day.
Daisy started clipping what she needed, her back to the lane. Until she heard horse hooves clopping along at a fast pace. She straightened and glanced down the path, seeing a gentleman on a tall horse the color of wheat.
It was Mr. Devon. Had they not been near neighbors, she would question the number of times they crossed each other’s paths.
She waited, wondering if he would ride by or stop to speak to her. She wasn’t at all surprised when he reined in his mount a few feet from where she stood and dismounted.
“Miss Ames,” he said, his smile somewhat cautious. “Good morning.”
“Mr. Devon.” She curtsied. “It is a lovely morning, isn’t it?”
He nodded and lowered his head, twisting the horse’s lead. It seemed if the man wasn’t permitted to flirt, he didn’t entirely know what to say. Daisy took pity on him by speaking next.
“Are you riding for pleasure or purpose this morning, Mr. Devon?”
He looked up at her, then at his horse. “A little of both, I suppose. My solicitor is coming to meet with me today. I felt it would be a good idea to exercise before being locked away for hours in the library with him.”
He really is trying to learn about his estate. Daisy studied him with greater interest, noting the dark smudges beneath his eyes and the way his smile didn’t grow as it had when she’d first seen him. “You are working with great dedication of late, aren’t you?”
He let out a puff of air and tilted his head back. “I find the way to learn a thing is to devote oneself to the subject, and as I have a lot of time to make up, my devotion to accounts, tenants, and the like borders on religious.”
Daisy bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing. “Sir, you forget yourself. I’m the vicar’s daughter and that was near blasphemous.”
Mr. Devon’s eyes widened and he gestured with one hand, in a supplicating manner. “I beg your—” He stopped when he saw her expression. “Oh, that wasn’t kind, Miss Ames. Feigning insult.”
Daisy shrugged and laid her sheers in her basket, not bothering to hide her smile. Her father would likely lower his eyes in disapproval of her playful tease. And teasing was akin to flirting. It would be best to speak in a more business-like manner. “Where will your solicitor stay while he is here?”
“At the inn. My sister’s house is rather full.” He narrowed his eyes at her, as though suspicious of the change in topic.
“Poor man. While the Sword and Shield is a perfectly respectable place to lay one’s head, they haven’t the best of food.” She let the basket handle rest in the crook of her arm. “Why don’t you stay at Whitewood while you are here?” She asked the question with a tilt of her head and honest curiosity.
The gentleman shrugged and looked away. “It is too large a house for one man.”
Daisy watched him, her new theory of his loneliness, of his need for friends, keeping her on the alert. What was the duty of a friend in a case such as this? Was it to let him speak the lie or beg the truth from him?
“I suppose that’s true. I sometimes feel our house is grown too large, with my sisters away.” She gestured to the vicarage, which was small and humble compared to his grand house. “But I imagine your staff is happy to have you returned, even if for only part of the day.”
His forehead wrinkled. “The staff? I suppose so.” Of course. As a man used to being waited upon, he likely wouldn’t think on the feelings of the people doing the waiting.
“Mm. Whitewood, as one of the larger estates, employees quite a few people even when no one is at home. I think the staff was greatly reduced after your father passed away.” In fact, she knew it had been cut by more than half. Several young maids had lost positions, footmen returned to their families hoping the references in their pockets would be enough to find work outside of tenant fields.
The whole economy of their little village had changed for a time. Eventually, adjustments were made and life continued forward.
Mr. Devon appeared to be considering her words, perhaps understanding all she did not say. “I haven’t given it very much thought. That does explain why my steward was pleased with himself when he told me all economies were taken in my absence.” He groaned and took off his hat. “Can we speak of something else? I am trying to escape thinking of my duties for a few moments.”
Although tempted to say he’d escaped them for several years, Daisy bit her tongue. It wasn’t her place to goad him on more than she already had. Every time she spoke to him of his duties it didn’t seem to end well for either of them.
Though they had grown up not far from one another, they had limited things in common. This made settling upon another topic for conversation difficult.
“What have you enjoyed about your return to Kettering?” she asked at last, studying his handsome face. He didn’t look very much like his sister, Mrs. Gilbert, except for his coloring.
“The ball was diverting,” he said, his lips quirking upward. “Though I think my favorite thing about these past weeks has been being back in the country. It’s beautiful here, as the seasons change.”
Daisy readily agreed on that opinion. “It is as though nature gives one last glorious effort before going to sleep for the winter.” She held her basket out as evidence. “The flowers will be gone soon, but aren’t they pretty in the meanwhile?”
“Asters,” he said, recognizing the blossoms. “I always liked them. They look like daisies—” He broke off suddenly. “Daisies. That’s what you were called years ago.” He stood back, his eyebrows shooting upward. “I knew Augusta didn’t seem quite right. Your sisters always called you Daisy.”
A bewildering sort of warmth spread within her chest as he regarded her. Daisy lowered her head, avoiding his eyes. Why did he disconcert her so much? He’d only remembered her childhood nickname, yet she felt oddly exposed. Or pleased? She couldn’t be certain which, given the odd twitch in her chest.
“So they did.” She adjusted her hold on the basket of the traitorous flowers. “But I am too grown up for such pet names now.”
He spoke as though he had not heard her. “You do strike me as more of a Daisy than an Augusta.” He tilted his head back and crossed his arms, affecting a somewhat triumphant pose that was entirely unwarranted. The horse apparently objected to the tug on its lead as it abruptly nudged his shoulder with its nose.
Daisy laughed as he cast the horse an insulted look. When Mr. Devon turned back to her, she tempered her amusement into an apologetic smile. “It serves you right, speaking my Christian name so casually. I didn’t give you leave to use it, after all.”
“It was merely an observation.” Mr. Devon didn’t appear the least repentant. “And as one who was Christened with an equally unsuitable name, I am uniquely qualified to make that observation. My father insisted I be named after his. Horace.” He shuddered a touch dramatically.
“It isn’t all that dreadful,” she said. “I’m certain it must be quite respectable. It sounds distinguished.” Although she certainly thought it a very somber sort of name to give to a little boy. “And your family calls you Harry.”
“Thankfully.” He grinned at her. “And I refuse to outgrow it. No one calls me Horace, except for my sister Rebecca. She does that when she wishes to annoy me.”
“Does it work?” Daisy asked, raising her eyebrows at him. “Because I might try the trick if it does.”
He considered her with narrowed eyes. “Why does the idea of annoying me amuse you so? I thought vicars’ daughters were supposed to be sweet, unassuming, and meek?”
Daisy spoke without thought, his challenge lightening her mood. “The first two daughters are required to fulfill those qualifications. Subsequent daughters may do as they like.” She tossed her chin, affecting a flippant expression.
“Then if they like, they can be called by childhood names. Like Daisy.” He grinned most impertinently and tipped his hat to her. “Good day, Miss Daisy.”
She gasped and lowered her hands to her side. “Mr. Devon, you must call me Miss Ames.” That is what she got for being familiar with him. What was it about the man that brought out the childishness in her? Why must she return each of his remarks with something clever of her own?
He mounted his horse, his broad smile still in place. “Such a shame. Miss Daisy really does suit you better.” Then the man had the audacity to wink at her before putting his heels to his horse and setting off once more.
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