by Esther Hatch
“Not at all, as I’ve hardly had a chance to speak with him. He seems so intent on the young Miss Paynter. I don’t understand it. She isn’t pretty, and she hardly has a penny to her name. What could he see in her?”
“Is she perhaps an easy target?”
“You don’t know Lord Bryant very well if you would think that of him. I believe most of the fun is in the chase. He wouldn’t be interested in an easy target.”
And yet, Miss Morgan was practically throwing herself at him in order to be noticed.
He wasn’t about to give her advice on how to interest Lord Bryant though. He would rather the baron didn’t give her a second thought.
Anthony straightened a row of hats and then advanced to the shelf of gloves. There was only so far he could go and still remain out of Miss Morgan’s aunt’s vision. A cream-colored pair stood out from the rest, and he ran his fingers over them. They were smooth and supple. Patience could use a pair of gloves like these for their next outing. They would be soft against her irritated red hands.
He pulled them off the shelf.
“Oh, those are beautiful,” Miss Morgan said, reaching for them.
“Do they fit you?” Anthony asked. He assumed Patience’s hands would be a little bit larger than Miss Morgan’s, since Patience was at least three inches taller.
Miss Morgan pulled them on and frowned. “They are a little big. But I assume they could be ordered to fit. Would you like to know my size?”
“No. I’ll buy these.”
“But I just told you they were too lar—” Miss Morgan’s eyes widened. “Oh, you are going to buy them for that woman. Who is she, by the way?” Miss Morgan’s smile looked different, as if the edges were curled up more than he would have thought possible. “I don’t believe I have seen her before.”
“She is no one you know or will ever know.”
“She’s just visiting London? She dances very well, or at least she did when she was dancing with Mr. Fairchild.”
Anthony straightened his shoulders. He was nearly as good a dancer as Stewart. Anthony had taken his dance lessons very seriously. He knew he danced perfectly, but everyone always complimented Stewart. There was no question Patience had enjoyed dancing with Stewart more than with him. He couldn’t put a finger on exactly what went wrong during their polka, but she had been uncomfortable. Toward the end of the dance, she had relaxed and shown how graceful she could be, but after his lift, she went right back to being uncomfortable again. How was it he always managed to make the women around him uncomfortable? Perhaps he was trying too hard, just as Miss Morgan was trying too hard around Lord Bryant. He didn’t know how not to try hard though. His father had drilled into him early that anything worth doing must be done well.
“At the very least, you won’t see her during the Season,” he said, not truly answering her question. A half-truth. Last week he would have just responded “Yes” and been done with it. It was basically the truth. But not quite. When did he become such a stickler? He supposed the funny maid was wearing on him. No wonder society didn’t encourage fraternizing with the help.
“So you won’t be breaking her heart?”
“No, I found the one woman who understands exactly what I am doing.”
Miss Morgan made a hissing sound through her teeth. “You told her?”
Blast. There was no half-truth to that question. But no matter. This was the woman he was to marry. They were allies in the game of deceit. “I did.”
Miss Morgan had moved on to a deep-blue ribbon, and she bunched that one up as well. “What if she speaks of it?”
“She will not speak of it.”
“How can you be so certain?”
How was he certain? He thought of her face next to his as the wood ignited into its first hot flames, the warm light bouncing off her cheeks as that broad mouth of hers grinned in triumph. Augusta and Harry seemed to come alive when she was near them. There were a lot of things he didn’t understand about his strange maid, but she wasn’t going to inform anyone of their scheme. “I’m certain.”
Miss Morgan furrowed her brow. Her eyes slipped down and onto the gloves he still held in his hand. “I don’t like the look on your face as you are thinking about her. Are you falling for the woman?”
“No!” How could she think such a thing? His face was normal. It was always normal. He didn’t know what she was talking about. “Of course not. You know me better than that. I have a plan for my future, and you are the only woman in it.”
“Not everyone’s life goes according to plan.”
“Mine does.”
“Your father’s didn’t. You didn’t go into the army as he planned.”
A low blow by the one woman he wanted to impress. He would never join the army though. It was a decision not only made, but set in stone. The stone over his mother’s grave. “Howard did. One son in the service will have to do for him.” He hated speaking of the army. When he had first promised his mother he would never be a part of it, he had floundered with an unsure future. Meeting Miss Morgan had changed all of that. She had given his life a purpose again. One that would make both his mother and, hopefully, his father proud of him.
“I don’t understand why you don’t just join. You know you would be promoted at a spectacular pace.”
“Only because of my father’s reputation.”
“Because of your father, yes, but also because you would deserve it. You could be a powerful force in the army, and yet, you have no desire to join. I’ve never understood it, and frankly, neither have my parents.”
“I thought you did understand. Not long after we met, you told me you understood.” Truthfully, that was the conversation that had made him decide to pursue her. Yes, her position in society and her dowry were perfect for him, but that moment had been the turning point he had needed to call him to action. “I remember that conversation perfectly. You said you couldn’t ever imagine being in the army.”
“And I stand by that. I couldn’t imagine being in the army. But I suppose I thought that you, as a man, would eventually come around. I mean, what else are you going to do with your life? Keep serving as your father’s steward? I’ve heard you do remarkably well with that, but let’s be honest. He could hire someone to take your place in a heartbeat.”
Anthony held his hand out. He wasn’t going to stand here and listen to Miss Morgan make any more disparaging remarks. All he needed was to know the location of their next meeting. The longer they stood here, the more likely they would be discovered. “Hand me those ribbons.”
“Pardon?”
“All those ribbons you have mangled. I am going to purchase them.”
“But I don’t want them. I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”
“Yes, and I hardly see why the shopkeeper should have to pay for your carelessness.”
“Well, I never,” she huffed, handing Anthony the ribbons. He tucked them into his hand atop the gloves. “You are still going to buy those gloves for that Miss Smith?”
“Yes.” He strode past her. “Your aunt is headed this way. What social function were you planning on us attending next? Please let it not be another ball.” The last thing he wanted was to watch either Miss Morgan or Patience dance with other men.
“Lord Bryant will be picnicking in Green Park, as will Miss Paynter. Everything has been arranged. They won’t arrive together but will manage to stop in the same place and will wind up spending the afternoon in each other’s company.”
“Picnicking? Lord Bryant? That seems rather . . . beneath him.”
“Of course it is beneath him. But so is that lady he is pursuing, so he will be there. One of my maids knows Miss Paynter’s maid, and she assured me this is their plan.”
“And your parents will be there as well?”
“My parents? On a picnic? Most certainly not. I will tell Mama I
am picnicking with you and your sister. Send me a carriage at noon.”
“Your parents won’t be there, and I am to send you a carriage? That seems quite the opposite of our plan.” If he were to escort her on a picnic, it would hardly seem that they were growing apart.
“I will let them know you are also bringing Miss Smith. What kind of lady is called Miss Smith? The name certainly inspires no imagination.”
That was precisely why he and Sophia had chosen it. There was no reason to remember a woman with the last name of Smith. “Yes, Smith. But wouldn’t it be wiser to simply attend a card party together where we can remain apart and hopefully make your parents worry about their loss?”
Miss Morgan placed her hand upon his forearm and patted it. “First things first. We must get Lord Bryant to show some interest in me, and a picnic could be ideal for that. I will tell my parents I heard you were taking your sister and Miss Smith and begged to join you. That way they can assume you weren’t the one to have the idea of spending time together. Perhaps your inattentiveness could be seen as the reason I throw myself into Lord Bryant’s arms.”
“You wouldn’t.”
She lowered her lashes, placed a hand over her mouth and bit one of her fingers. “Of course, I meant that figuratively.”
It was like he didn’t know Miss Morgan anymore. Lord Bryant made all women into featherheads. He had no other explanation for it. And yet, here he was, about to throw her into his path. “And you are certain he will be there?”
“As certain as I can be. My maid assured me that was their plan.”
Miss Morgan had been receiving her information through bribery and underhandedness. It was a common skill; one he was sure his father had to employ during the war. But he couldn’t see Patience doing it. The woman couldn’t even tell a proper lie. Still, it wasn’t fair to compare the two women. Miss Morgan was whom he had chosen. Patience was a maid. Perhaps a maid had the luxury of being honest in a world where little was expected of her. Miss Morgan had to navigate the complex world of the ton and had been doing so flawlessly for the past two years.
He bought the ribbons and the gloves. He’d meant to hand the ribbons back to Miss Morgan, but her aunt was by her side after he finished making his purchase. He would have to find another time to give her the ribbons she had damaged.
Chapter 11
Patience had often dined al fresco at her family’s estate in Surrey. She had even been on a few picnics when she was quite young, before Nicholas had left for the army. Those picnics seemed like a lifetime ago. After two years of mourning Papa, and her back garden being the only nature she’d seen for the past few months in London, Green Park was a paradise. It was large enough for even the air to seem fresher. She looked up at the sky through the trees. Being out of doors had always had a calming effect on her. If Ollie were at her side begging for meat, the afternoon would be perfect. Nature seemed to agree with Mr. Woodsworth as well. It was hard to look so stoic when sitting on a blanket in the middle of the park.
Miss Morgan, on the other hand, seemed less relaxed. Her eyes kept darting about the park as if she was looking for someone. Mrs. Jorgensen somehow managed to keep her back just as straight as she did while eating at a dining table. She was the only one unaffected by their locale.
Mr. Woodsworth leaned forward and opened the basket Cook had packed for them.
After a few more not-so-discrete glances around the park, Miss Morgan sighed and turned her soft features on Patience. “How did you meet Mr. Woodsworth?”
Mr. Woodsworth paused with a loaf of bread raised into the air.
Mrs. Jorgensen coughed. “They have been friends for quite some time.” Mrs. Jorgensen patted her brother on the back. “Isn’t that right, Anthony?”
“Yes, I suppose you could say that.” Mr. Woodsworth placed the bread down on a plate he had laid out earlier. That was the story Mrs. Jorgensen had asked Patience to tell everyone. Unfortunately for her, she hadn’t known that Patience’s body had a physical, negative side effect that cropped up every time she tried to lie.
“Actually, the very first time I met him, I happened to be crawling through the bushes of his home.”
Mrs. Jorgensen’s head whipped around. Apparently Mr. Woodsworth hadn’t told about her less-than-heroic entrance to their grounds.
“They were very young,” Mrs. Jorgensen added.
Patience supposed twenty could be considered very young. But she wasn’t sure how old Mr. Woodsworth was. Not old, certainly, but his actions sometimes seemed to make him seem older than he must be. Thirty perhaps.
“I think you could say that I was young.” Patience smiled. “But I’m not so sure the same could be said of Mr. Woodsworth.”
“You think me old?” The edges of his mouth turned down.
Patience smiled. Why was it so enjoyable to get a reaction out of him? She loved the way his face changed with every emotion. Most of the time the changes were so insignificant she was certain only someone who knew him very well would notice. “Well,” Patience said, “you don’t look any younger when you frown like that.”
His face went blank. Not in confusion or lack of emotion. No, Patience had studied Mr. Woodsworth’s face enough to know that when it went neutral like that it was because he was trying to control his emotions. “According to Augusta,” he said, “you feel that my smile makes me look like a duck. So I hardly think going around with a smile upon my face is a good idea.”
Oh dear, now was probably not the time to tell him his smile reminding her of a duck was actually a compliment.
“You’ve met the Jorgensen children?” Miss Morgan stopped her restless watching and joined the conversation. “I’ve yet to meet your children, Mrs. Jorgensen.” Miss Morgan shifted closer to Mrs. Jorgensen. “Or should I call you Sophia?”
Mrs. Jorgensen reached into the basket to pull out a block of cheese wrapped in paper. “Mrs. Jorgensen is fine,” she said without fully looking at Miss Morgan.
Patience swallowed a laugh she was certain would not be well received by Miss Morgan. Was Miss Morgan actually jealous of her relationship with Augusta and Harry? Didn’t Miss Morgan realize that all it would take from her was one word and Mr. Woodsworth would be happily engaged to her? If she was so possessive of him, she should just marry him already. That is exactly what Patience would do. Two years was a long time for a man to wait on a woman. Even one he considered perfectly suited to him.
“I’m not that old.” Mr. Woodsworth was still carefully masking his face. Why would that bother him? Did he want to be called young and naive like she so often was? “And I don’t really think I smile like a duck.”
“I never said you smile like a duck.”
“Sophia’s two children would disagree.”
“Regardless, I didn’t say that, not exactly. And as you know, I am incapable of lying.”
Miss Morgan’s ears perked up. “You never lie?”
Mr. Woodsworth straightened his back and leaned forward. “Honesty is a great virtue.”
“Not even little white lies?” Miss Morgan asked.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Patience didn’t know Miss Morgan well, but her interest didn’t seem friendly.
“You know,” Miss Morgan said. “A lie to soften a blow or help someone feel better.”
Patience didn’t like the gleam of interest in Miss Morgan’s eye. “I am practically incapable of it. I would like to say it was a virtue, as Mr. Woodsworth suggests, but more likely it is that God knew I would need extra help in being virtuous, so he made lying nearly impossible for me. I hope that despite my particular habit, I have learned how to not hurt others. I think there are ways to answer those types of questions without being hurtful or lying.”
A smile formed on Miss Morgan’s lips, and she leaned forward. “Do you think Mr. Woodsworth looks old?”
Patience examined Mr.
Woodsworth’s face. He cleared his throat and curled his fingertips around the cuffs of his sleeves. She could see him restraining himself from pulling at his sleeves and making sure his clothing was in order. He didn’t actually look very old, just severe and serious. Which isn’t young either.
“I’m only twenty-six,” he said before Patience could answer.
“And you look exactly twenty-six,” Miss Morgan said. Her answer practically bounced out of her. “But go ahead, Miss Smith, I would like you to answer my question. Does Mr. Woodsworth look old to you?”
“Mr. Woodsworth is hard to describe,” Patience began, and it was true. In the small amount of time she had been around him, he had shown her many sides of himself. A man who would propose to a woman hiding behind a curtain. A man who would kneel next to a servant and patiently teach her to start a fire—a job any decent maid should know how to do—while reserving judgment. Her lip quirked as she remembered him flustered on her bed with bright yellow fabric enveloping him. “I do not think he looks old.”
“So you think he looks young?” Miss Morgan prompted, apparently not willing to give up on her entertainment.
Mr. Woodsworth’s light-blue eyes hit hers, slicing into her like knives carved of ice, both sharp and vulnerable. Attack the knife from the side and it would break; leave it in the warmth of the sun and it would melt. But a slice from one would cut just as deeply as any weapon crafted from steel. It was best not to spar directly with Mr. Woodsworth. “He is more serious than any other twenty-six-year-old I have met. He runs the household as someone with much more experience in life than those few years. I have never once seen him come home late or indisposed from a night at White’s, even though, with his father’s status, he would most definitely be admitted there. Mr. Woodsworth is a man quite mature for his years, so even though I wouldn’t call him old, I couldn’t call him young either.”
It was silent for a moment. Miss Morgan shifted her skirt more fully around her legs on the blanket. Mr. Woodsworth’s bladed eyes were still on her, but they had softened. Melted, just as she had hoped.
