Daisies and Devotion

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “You would do that for me?”

  “Certainly.”

  He leaned forward suddenly, quick enough that she startled and her loud, bracing laugh escaped. She quickly covered her mouth but kept her eyes on Timothy as he stared at her face. “I am checking you for tight ears.”

  She lowered her hand and narrowed her eyes at his joke. “Well, you shan’t find them because I am telling the truth.”

  Lucas suddenly flopped into the chair next to Timothy, wine nearly sloshing out of the glass in his hand. “My apologies,” he said, then yawned and rubbed his head with his free hand, making a mess of his hair.

  A quick look about the room showed it had emptied, which explained his casualness. “One would not expect that getting people to leave would take an entire hour.” He downed the rest of his drink, then set it to the side on a small table already sporting three other wine glasses. He looked between Timothy and Maryann. “What are we discussing? Have I missed out on my share?”

  “You have no share,” Timothy said, casting a quick but pleading look at Maryann. She had promised discretion regarding his situation, and she was a woman of her word, though she had longed to discuss the issue up one side and down the other with Deborah a dozen times over the last weeks. She gave him a nod in response and turned her attention to Lucas.

  “I was only asking Timothy why he was so tired.”

  Lucas looked at his friend, pulling back as though that was necessary to get a full view. “He does look rather haggard, doesn’t he?”

  “I have been attending too many parties,” Timothy said.

  Lucas laughed. “Too many? I never thought you could get enough parties.”

  “Well, it seems I can.”

  Maryann wished she had someone looking for her with as much determination as Timothy was looking for his perfect woman. Regardless of whether she believed in soul mates, what would it be like to have a man choose you above all others?

  She hurried to speak before her thoughts swallowed her resolve. “We were just discussing how he might better choose his events so he might not wear himself out so.”

  Lucas looked at Maryann with raised eyebrows. “Were you now?”

  Lucas and Deborah had had a difficult time coming to terms with Timothy’s distance this last month. Maryann had told them that she and Timothy did not suit, but it seemed they were unable to completely let go of their hopes. Maybe this would help convince them. She looked at Lucas coolly. “Is that so surprising? Are Timothy and I not friends?”

  Lucas shrugged, but Timothy caught her eyes, half of his mouth pulled up in a smile. It was as good as a written contract, the way he held her eyes with his lovely blue ones. Yes, they were friends. Yes, she would help him. But she had additional reasons. She had enjoyed this one conversation during this one evening more than any other she’d had in the last month. She was never so happy as when she was with him.

  “And, as a friend,” she continued, “I was about to tell him that the next time he wears this blue coat, he should pair it with his black breeches and the black-and-pink-patterned waistcoat.”

  “You’ll make him into a dandy!” Lucas exclaimed at the same time that Timothy took hold of his lapels and looked down at his clothes in surprise.

  She gave Lucas an irritated look. “Not in the slightest. Timothy owns some very nice pieces of clothing. Pairing them differently will not only show them in greater variety but improve his overall fashionability. Some women quite like a man of fashion.”

  “I believe I have just been insulted,” Timothy said, still clutching the edges of his jacket. “I am capable of dressing myself.”

  Maryann waved toward Lucas. “Deborah chooses his evening dress.”

  Lucas sat up straight, sputtering. “Well, now.”

  “Does she?” Timothy asked his friend, eyebrows lifted.

  Lucas looked between them, completely caught. “Well.” He pulled at his waistcoat—a lovely thing of silver and apricot that looked very nice with his charcoal coat. “My valet is a bit old-fashioned, and, well, women do have a knack for color and such.” He sat up even straighter. “And men have better things to do than put this with that and that with this!”

  “Oh, yes, such important things to do,” Maryann said with a nod and a smile because they all knew Lucas spent most of his time at the club drinking and smoking and talking about horses.

  She looked at Timothy. “Wear the combination I recommend and see if I am not right.”

  He smiled at her, his eyes bright, and nodded. “I shall.”

  Timothy finished a jig that left him dabbing his forehead with his handkerchief as he waited for the next dance to begin. Almack’s was stifling tonight. He thought he might sit out the next set after having such a lively time of the first, but he hated to see young ladies without partners and he liked to dance. They needed more waltzes, that’s what. No one worked up a sweat during a waltz. Opening some windows would help as well, but the day had been particularly humid, which was likely why the night held no relief.

  “Mr. Mayfield?”

  Timothy turned to his right, a ready smile on his lips, which grew wider when he saw that the interruption came from none other than Maryann Morrington. Beside her was a young woman he’d never met before, and slightly ahead of them both was an older woman he belatedly recognized as Countess Cowper, one of the patronesses always willing to facilitate introductions. Timothy bowed over the older woman’s hand, deftly pocketing his handkerchief at the same time, hoping none of them would notice. “Lady Cowper,” he said as he rose. “What a lovely gown.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mayfield,” she said with a smile. She’d always liked him, but then most people did. “I would like to introduce you to Miss Natalia Rushford. Miss Morrington thought you would like to meet her.”

  Timothy flashed Maryann a quick smile of thanks, and then centered his attention on the lovely young woman beside her. A very young young woman. Timothy suspected she was not yet sixteen.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Rushford. Miss Morrington was telling me about you just yesterday.” He took her hand and bowed over it, then thanked Lady Cowper for the introduction before she moved on to her other duties of the evening.

  “A pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Mayfield,” Miss Rushford said. Her voice was so soft he had to lean in to hear her. “Miss Morrington says you are delightful.”

  He turned raised eyebrows to Maryann. “Did she also tell you that I am a very fine dancer?”

  Maryann very rudely—but expectedly—rolled her eyes. Only Timothy could see it, however. Timothy smiled at Miss Rushford. “Would you like to partner me this set? I would be much obliged.”

  “Oh,” she said, surprised, her whole face brightening. “That would be lovely.”

  He put out his arm, winking at Maryann as they left her on the edge of the floor. It was a relief to be back on good terms with Maryann. The weeks when they had been out of favor had been uncomfortable, but he had not known what else to do to bridge the gap. To not only have their friendship back on solid ground, but to also have introductions to the new arrivals in the city was something he appreciated very much.

  Miss Rushford was not a confident dancer, but she knew the steps well enough. He complimented her on her dress and hair so that by the end of the dance, her face was bright and her manner engaged. In turn, she complimented his attire, which was the second compliment of the evening on the ensemble Maryann had challenged him to wear. Perhaps he did need help dressing himself.

  After the set concluded, Timothy returned Miss Rushford to Maryann, who had reappeared at the sidelines as though she were the girl’s mother. No sooner had they stopped when Mr. Hawthorne asked Miss Rushford for the next, which she gladly accepted. Timothy stood by Maryann’s side, watching the new couple take their places on the floor.

  “Well?” Maryann asked quietly thro
ugh her society smile, not to be confused with her teasing smile or her reprimanding smile or even her “I can barely stand you” smile. “What do you think of Miss Rushford?”

  “She is lovely,” Timothy said politely.

  “What do you really think?”

  He laughed. “That is what I really think.”

  She slapped him on the arm, playful but harder than was polite. “You need not protect me. What about her is not quite right? You are not swooning over her.”

  “First of all, I do not imagine I am the swooning type,” he said. “Secondly, she is lovely, and I stand by that summation. Thirdly, she is . . . very young. How old is she?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Gracious,” he said, shaking his head. “There are two types of sixteen-year-old girls, Maryann. Those who look sixteen, and those who look twelve. Miss Rushford is of the latter group, but neither type interests me all that much.”

  “You did not have an age requirement on your list.”

  “Well, I shall add it as soon as I return to my rooms, then.” He nodded sharply, the decision made. It felt unseemly to imagine anything of a romantic sort with such a young girl. “But she is lovely, and I hope she finds London to her liking and that she is given the chance to grow up before she becomes a man’s wife.”

  “Your attention will do her well even if she is not to your tastes.”

  Like the dog in Aesop’s fable, men liked better what another man had, though it embarrassed him that Maryann knew this truth as well. The attention he showed to Miss Rushford would draw the eyes of other men, and thus she would be assisted on her way. Which is one reason why he made a point of dancing with as many women as possible, even though his interest was very specifically focused. The ton liked Timothy—his lack of consequence and cousin Harry notwithstanding. They trusted his judgment and character. Timothy did not take such trust lightly and did all he could to be a good steward of such.

  “I hope that it does help her,” Timothy said humbly. The set began, and he realized they were both standing there, unpartnered. “Um, would you care to dance, Maryann?”

  She did not look at him and instead gazed about the room. “You do not need to ask me to dance, Timothy.”

  “I know I do not need to, but I am asking if you would like to dance with me.”

  She gave him a dull look. “No, actually, I would not because I know you are asking me simply because you and I are standing beside one another without partners and you are being polite.”

  “Well, I am a gentleman,” he said, lifting his chin slightly. “It is my creed to be polite.”

  She huffed through a smile and shook her head. “I am going to have some punch.” She turned, and he followed, staying beside her as they made their way toward the refreshments. It was too late to join the set now, and he appreciated the reprieve; the room was not getting more comfortable.

  “It was very kind of you to facilitate the introduction to Miss Rushford,” Timothy said. “You have kept your word to me.”

  “Are you saying this so that I do not facilitate future introductions?”

  “Not at all,” Timothy said, slightly offended at her accusation. “I am intrigued by the idea of your inside information on new girls to London and appreciate your offer to introduce me.”

  She looked over her shoulder and nodded once. “You are welcome.”

  They reached the refreshments, and she reached for a glass. He took hold of her wrist and pulled it back before selecting a glass and handing it to her. She smiled sardonically at him but thanked him all the same.

  “You are most welcome, Miss Morrington,” he said formally before taking a glass of his own. They took their first sips at the same time and turned to one another with equally unimpressed looks, which made them both pinch their lips together and look away to keep from laughing.

  Maryann moved toward one of the tables for used glasses and added hers to the other mostly full ones already in place. Timothy followed suit.

  “The lemonade is never anything to crow about, but something was amuck with that punch,” Timothy said, trying to get the bitter taste out of his mouth. What he wouldn’t give for a swallow of wine or brandy, or even water, for heaven’s sake.

  “Anise,” Maryann said, then coughed slightly and put a gloved hand to her mouth. “It is far too heavy on anise.”

  “Yes, that is it exactly.” He shuddered dramatically. “I may never recover.”

  She pinched her lips together again, but her eyes were dancing. “Do not make me laugh.”

  “I shan’t if I can help it.” He added an even more dramatic shudder to emphasis his teasing.

  She chuckled as she turned to him. “What?”

  They were friends. Good friends. The kind of friends who could tease one another as he and his schoolmates did all the time. Her eyes were dancing and her smile was in place—all felt safe and well between them. “Your laugh is very much like the bray of a donkey. I should not want to unleash that on such an unsuspecting crowd as this one.”

  He expected her to cover her mouth to keep from laughing again, but instead her expression fell and a hot pink flush filled her cheeks. She blinked, then turned quickly and made her way through the crowd away from him.

  Blast. He’d hurt her feelings. Why had he not realized that this particular teasing would be over the line? He followed her but quickly lost sight of her in the crowd of colorful gowns and bouncing headdresses.

  “Mr. Mayfield?”

  He scanned the figures ahead of him once more before looking to his side at Miss Larkin. He’d sought her out first thing upon his return from Norfolk but had not remained attentive since. She talked of nothing but her hair and figure. It was one thing for him to admire her qualities, quite another for her to admire herself. It had taken only two dances and one partnering at dinner for him to know they would never suit. He had lessened his attention after that, and other men had quickly filled the space he’d left behind.

  “Miss Larkin, so good to see you.”

  “I thought it was you,” she said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Would you like to meet my cousin—Constance Larkin? She is just come to London.”

  “Oh, of course,” Timothy said. He scanned the room once more but could not see Maryann. He felt he had little choice but to meet cousin Constance, who was a middle-aged version of Miss Larkin. He would plan an appropriate apology for Maryann in the meantime.

  “We matched our frocks tonight,” Miss Larkin said, leaning into her cousin to show that, indeed, they both wore light-yellow gowns. “I think they look very nice with our hair, though mine is lighter than Constance’s. What do you think of our slippers? Which do you like best?” She lifted her skirts—too high—and turned her foot this way and that so he might admire her footwear. To his further dismay, her cousin did the same—two women holding their feet out to him at Almack’s.

  Timothy searched the crowd for Maryann again, but she was no longer in view. Surely, as friends, she would forgive him. Wouldn’t she?

  For now, there was nothing to do but compliment footwear. Yes, London was losing its charm more and more with every passing week, and he was apparently losing control of his manners in the process.

  The second bouquet of daisies arrived the next morning. Again, they were not florist quality, but the imperfections made them better. She inhaled their fragrance as she had with the first bouquet and ached for home. What she would not give to be back in Dunster, picking her own daisies, wearing her hair long down her back and walking barefoot in the wet sand along the shoreline. Tears pricked her eyes with a fierce longing. She blinked them away and focused on Timothy’s flowers of apology. Maryann had not yet overcome the feelings he had sparked the night before: Small. Angry. Hurt. Rejected.

  She’d known Timothy did not like her laugh, she’d seen him bristle enough times over it, but to compare i
t to the bray of a donkey . . . Her cheeks flushed all over again to remember it.

  Why can I not be the woman he wants? The thought brought tears to her eyes, making her feel even more pathetic and ushering in an even more pathetic thought: Why must I continue to want to be the woman he wants?

  She rang for a vase for the flowers, then opened the card tucked inside the cheap green paper.

  Dear Maryann,

  I cannot apologize enough for my cruel words last night. I was caught up in the wit and banter which has always been so good between us and let myself tread too heavily on sensitive topics. I could see in your face how much I hurt you with my words, and I have been ill over it, knowing that you must feel even worse. There is scarcely a woman in the world I admire more than I admire you, and I cherish our friendship as dear as any I am so fortunate to possess. I hope I have not lost your regard, for that would be the worst suffering I can imagine. Please forgive me for being such a buffoon.

  Your friend,

  Timothy

  She did not doubt his sincerity. It was not in his nature to be cruel on purpose, but he was proving rather adept at hurting her despite his intentions. Was it even more hurtful because she could not be angry at him for something he’d done in ignorance? If he’d meant to hurt her, she could count that against him, but he’d thought he was teasing her the same way she had pointed out a better combination of coat and waistcoat for him the night before.

  One of the items on his list of a perfect woman had been “a tinkling laugh.” Was that on the list specifically because of how he felt toward her laugh? It was such a specific, personal element. And one she had no control over. She had tried to change her laugh when she was younger, but when something took her by surprise, she could not hold down the burst of joy in response. Her family had helped her accept and even appreciate her laugh.

  And Timothy hated it. Thought it sounded like a donkey. How many others were equally appalled by her laugh?