Page 22 of The Duke I Wished For
“Perhaps,” he said in answer, knowing it was, at least in part, true. They’d all like to be a duchess. But since meeting Daffodil, all his thoughts on the subject had shifted.
Before, he’d been content to find a suitable bride, one who filled his requirements. His last wife had been that. Why had it not occurred to him sooner to hope for more?
“I’d…I’d be a fool to decline.” Her gaze cast down at her lap.
That wasn’t precisely what he’d hoped to hear. Not wanting to say no was far different than wishing to say yes.
“I know this is all very sudden. I haven’t spoken to your father, but I thought we might discuss it first.” Blast. He was babbling. “Perhaps I’ve rushed?—”
“Your kerchief,” Daffodil said abruptly, setting the square of fabric she’d held in her hand out onto her lap.
“What about it?” He tried not to blow out a breath of frustration. He wasn’t doing a particularly good job of proposing here, but talking about a stained bit of linen she’d used to wipe his daughter’s frock hardly seemed necessary.
“The embroidery. It’s very fine.” Her fingers trembled the slightest bit as she ran a finger over the initials BH.
“I suppose it is.” He shook his head. “But what concerns me is?—”
“It was done by your first wife?” Her chin lifted and her gaze met his, pain pulling at the corners of her eyes. What was wrong with her?
“Yes. Why?” He’d like to toss the square into the bushes and never look at it again.
“Was embroidery on your list?” Her nose wrinkled even as she looked away again.
“List?” But sick dread settled deep in his stomach. He didn’t quite see how all her comments tied together, but he knew they were building toward something he surely wouldn’t wish to hear.
“Of accomplishments you wished for in a wife? Was embroidery on the list?”
Memories of their first conversation made his mouth twitch into a tight line. They’d discussed embroidery once already. He’d been a fool in that first conversation, but he’d not repeat the mistake.
“The list was a foolish?—”
But he never got a chance to finish.
“There you are.” Countess Clearwater stood several feet away, waving at her daughter. He straightened, his mouth growing grim.
Daffodil’s father had been correct, Daffodil looked very much like her mother. Thick blonde hair, clear blue eyes. But that was as far as their similarities went.
Where Daffodil was kind and tenderhearted, this woman was a barely concealed viper. He could feel it, hear it in her voice and her comments, see it in the hard set of her eyes.
“Mother.” The slightest tremor ran through Daffodil. Instinctively the arm that he’d put on the back of the bench wrapped about her and she leaned into him, seeking his protection. His chest expanded to know she needed him in this moment, and the desire to fill that need had a muscle ticking in the back of his jaw.
Her mother approached, beaming down at them until her eyes found Clarissa. “Oh dear. She’s got a stain on her dress.”
He felt Daffodil stiffen, though she didn’t answer.
“The gown should not be soaked, Your Grace, and my daughter should have been holding a cloth under her chin. Daffodil, you ought to know better. Nothing is worse than sloppy children.”
Now it was his turn to stiffen. But not in fear. He held Daffodil even tighter as he narrowed his gaze. “I disagree.”
The countess stopped, eyeing him with suspicion even as Daffodil rose from the bench, leaving his embrace. He felt the loss of her heat and grimaced, wishing she’d come back to sit next to him.
She belonged against him. He rose as well, his hand discreetly brushing along the small of her back.
“Did you need something, Mother?” Daffodil asked, her hands tightly clasped together even as her chin notched up.
“It’s nearly time for Madame Bellafonte’s tea.”
They’d been in the middle of a conversation. Granted, not a particularly productive one, but he was certain he could turn the entire thing around if just given a bit more time.
