Page 19 of The Duke I Wished For
But before Daffodil could say as much, Isabelle joined in their hug. “I’ll stay with you as well. My father surely won’t mind and it will keep your mother on her best behavior.”
Delilah let out a long breath. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Daffodil started. “I’m sure I’ll stay with our family.” She did not add that she expected the duke not to attend and if he did…
He surely would not wish to spend time with her.
But she found herself remaining quiet as the group made their way downstairs, greeting the family who’d assembled in the foyer and the front entry.
One look at her mother confirmed just how foolish her early morning wish had been. Her mother’s gaze slid down Daffodil. “I knew I should have sent you a note on which dress you ought to wear. That shade of pink is meant for candlelight. Not sunshine.”
Daffodil winced, glancing down at the muslin frock she’d chosen, her hands smoothing the fabric.
“And Delilah,” her mother continued, heedless of all the people around them. “Who styled your hair? It’s atrocious. I’ve told you a hundred times, it needs to be looser.”
“But there’s dancing today, Mother,” Delilah feebly attempted to argue.
“A lady can hold her head still as she dances,” their mother chastised, mouth pinched. “I thought this school would teach as much.” The countess’s glare cut to Madame Bellafonte, who had the good grace to ignore their mother.
Daffodil did her best to notch her chin high and ignore the words, but their conversation about the duke still rang in her ears. Her mother was right. She’d not the skills for such a match. Perhaps Mr. Benson was truly the best she could do. She shivered even as they stepped outside in the sunshine, gay ribbons dancing from their bonnets and about the maypole, her mood now a stark contrast as colorful bits of fabric floated along the breeze and people chattered gaily around her.
But she was startled from her melancholy when a throat cleared to her left. She’d know the deep baritone anywhere and her blood ran cold as she looked up to see the Duke of Hathshire standing five feet away, his hand clasped with Clarissa’s.
“Oh,” she murmured, unsure of what to say. So much had changed even since this morning, at least in her own thoughts. Her feelings were a patchwork of emotions, none of which she could share with him.
“Clearwater,” he gave a stiff bow to her father, her heart racing in her chest.
“Your Grace,” her father answered, bowing in return. Her mother cocked a brow, even as her father turned to her. “May I introduce the Duke of Hathshire.”
“A pleasure,” her mother answered, dipping into a deep curtsey. Her own face began to flame with heat as she and Daffodil followed suit.
They all rose, her mother beaming at Clarissa. But even Daffodil could see the calculating gleam in her mother’s eyes. “And who is this lovely little lady?” Her mother’s voice came out just a bit too loud, too harsh, and Daffodil watched as the girl shrank behind her father.
Daffodil’s chest constricted. She knew what it felt like to be shy, to be insecure. She wasn’t precisely certain where Clarissa’s worry stemmed from but her own came from her complicated relationship with her mother. Daffodil could do little to change her own childhood, but she’d not allow her mother to worry this child now. Bending down into a crouch, she heard her mother’s exasperated sigh of disapproval as her skirts dipped into the grass, which she ignored, as she held out a hand to Clarissa. “Hello again.”
Clarissa gave her the smallest wave, still half hidden.
“Did you know that Madame Bellafonte will serve tea later? All the girls at the school will practice proper serving. Would you care to join us? I bet you could show them a thing or two.”
Clarissa transformed with the words, a large smile splitting her face as she stepped out from behind Hathshire. Daffodil reached out a hand and the girl easily took it.
“Oh yes.” Her mother nodded along. “Every girl should know how to pour tea. It’s an art and it is imperative that a young lady understand the particulars. A gentleman will want to marry a woman who can demonstrate grace and style as she serves.”
The four-year-old girl hardly needed to be informed of such details. Learning should, first and foremost, be fun. Clarissa gave her mother a quelling look.
But it was Hathshire who answered, “True.” The duke’s eyes narrowed. “But as she is four, we’ll simply focus on the ritual, I think.”
“Oh but, Your Grace—” her mother started. From the corner of Daffodil’s eye, she saw her father nudge her mother with his elbow. He never spoke or acted against his wife. The nudge was so shocking that her mother instantly stopped speaking.
“Lord Clearwater.” Hathshire cleared his throat once again. “Might we escort your daughter for a turn about the park?”
Her father gave a quick nod. “Of course, my lord. Take your time.”
The duke smiled then, and Daffodil forgot all of her worries, forgot to breathe, as she looked up at him. He was always handsome, but like this, dear heaven above, the man was devastating when he smiled.
The gesture was easy and warm, his eyes crinkling at the corners in the nicest way. Despite all her fears still lurking in the back of her thoughts, she smiled back, some of her own tension melting away.
“Come on, Daffodil.” Clarissa rushed forward to take her hand, tugging so that Daffodil rose up from her crouch. “They’re selling oranges on the other side of the park and…” Her breath caught as her small fingers gave Daffodil’s a squeeze.
