Page 137 of The Sisters of Sea View
The warm light in his eyes softened his teasing.
She joggled her palm up and down. She wasn’t exactly sure why she wanted the letter, but she did.
He handed it over. “Then what shall I use to mark my place?”
Emily thought, then reached up and tugged from her head the length of ribbon she wore as a simple bandeau.
“There you are.” She extended the ribbon.
He stared at it yet made no move to take it.
The mischief faded from his eyes. “I ... should not accept it.”
“Why not? It is only to mark your place inmybook. I don’t expect you to wear it.” She grinned again, but he remained serious. Did he think she’d meant it as a love token?
Had she?
It was not as though she’d given him a lock of her hair. Did he believe accepting it signaled some attachment or obligation on his part?
After a long moment, he slowly, almost reverently, took the ribbon from her, smoothing it flat between the pages.
“Thank you, Miss Summers. I shall leave it behind when I go.”
How strangely formal he suddenly seemed. Had she been too forward? She had not meant to be.
“As you wish, Mr. Stanley.”
He bowed, turned, and started back upstairs, with none of the vigor he’d displayed on his way down.
Emily watched him go, feeling perplexed and almost ... chastised. Charles had corrected her on various matters of etiquette over the years, and she had not liked it then either.
She carried his letter into the library and unfolded it on the desk. When it had arrived, she’d read it perfunctorily—scanning for the dates requested in order to dash off a quick reply to a stranger.
Now she studied the fine handwriting. The formal structure and excellent spelling. She looked at the closing:Mark Stanley, Esq.and his direction.
Esquire.The term could mean he was a son of a knight or younger son of a peer. Then again, it could mean he was a barrister or some appointed official, although he seemed too young for that. In any case, he was certainly a gentleman.
Mark.A straightforward, masculine name. It suited him.
Remembering his hesitation to accept the ribbon, Emily’s heart sank. Perhaps she had misread his flirtation as she had misread Charles’s. Yet Mr. Stanleyhadaccepted it, she consoled herself, only to recall that he intended to leave it behind when he departed.
At Westmount the next day, Viola was in the midst of reading aloud the London news when the major blurted, “Does it bother you?”
Viola looked up, startled. “Which part?”
“Having to let out rooms in what was meant to be your private home.”
She huffed. “What is the point of discussing that? What is done is done.”
“Is your family in such dire financial straits?”
“Unfortunately, we are. Although Sarah would box my ears if she heard me admit it. We are excessively proud, for all of that.”
“I thought you had several guests already?”
“Presently, yes, but no further room requests for the future. However, we hope things will improve. A new edition of Mr. Butcher’s guidebook is planned—The Beauties of Sidmouth Displayed. And we are endeavoring to get Sea View mentioned in it. A good write-up would certainly bring in more guests.”
“What has been done to that end?”
