Page 30 of An Unwitting Alliance
“By the way, I brought you something too.” He extended his hand, and the white frilly item unfurled from his grasp.
“A mobcap?”
“You are correct.” He pressed out the wrinkles and set it on her lap next to Tiger, who eyed it curiously.
“Thank you?”
“Go ahead, put it on.”
“Later, perhaps. When I am ill. Or... in the winter.” She looked at his blank expression and added, “Tonight, then. While I am sleeping.”
“Don’t be vain, Miss Vail. Mobcaps are an essential part of spinsterhood. And before you insist on a mirror, I can assist you.” He took the mobcap from her hands and attempted to stretch the thing over her head. His fingers pushed through her hair, sending gooseflesh down her arms.
“What are you doing?” She pushed at one of his arms with the hand that was not holding Tiger, but she had set her fingers around his muscle, and immediately an unwelcome sensation made her cease resisting. That was how she ended up wearing a mobcap and once again mesmerized by Mr. Harwood’s laughing eyes.
“Spinsterhood becomes you, Miss Vail. I shall have to scrounge up a pair of spectacles next time. And perhaps you have a large fichu to tie about your neck?” His brow rose. “No? Never mind. I do believe you are perfect just as you are. I must bow to your matronly ways, as will your brothers. I daresay Robin might finally complete his arithmetic.”
“Robin?” Where had this nickname come from? She adjusted the mobcap, feigning indifference when she sorely wanted to rip it off her head. As ridiculous as it was, she wanted to continue the spinster ruse. Mobcaps weren’t for young spinsters, just older ones, but if Mr. Harwood believed she would make a better spinster than a wife for himself, who was she to argue?
Mr. Harwood grinned. “Yes, Robin. He’s always flitting about, and his high-pitched voice is a little chirpy, wouldn’t you say? I have come up with nicknames for all of you, for the most part holding close to the originals to help me learn them as well. I am even better at this than interrupting, by the way.”
“Please, enlighten me.”
“Bethany is Bethy-Tall and Jane is Janie-Small. The differentiation in height is important to keep them apart.”
“What about the older ones?”
“Michael is Michelangelo, an intelligent master of the arts. If I had known the artist, I would’ve thought the younger version to be just like your brother. Serious, a little brooding, and underestimated in his capacity for greatness. Peter is Rock, taken from Simon Peter, of course, in order to inspire the lad to shake off his fears and inadequacies and grow into the man he’s supposed to be.”
He didn’t take nicknaming lightly, did he? “I can appreciate those, I suppose. What of Megan?”
Mr. Harwood hesitated. “I give few nicknames to ladies because I am foremost a gentleman. However, a few select, fortunate women do earn a name. Megan is Nutmeg, but I will call her Megs for short since I would hate to give offense if she has a disliking to the spice.”
Foremost a gentleman? That was debatable. At least he recognized that not all ladies desired to be branded on a whim. She eyed him, suddenly wary. “I dare not ask what you have come up with for me.”
He relaxed back against the sofa, his arms spreading across the top of the cushion. If she leaned back, she would practically be in his arms. Couldn’t he take his respite in the other room?
“I have come up with several names for you, Miss Vail, but nothing has stuck.” He turned his head to the side and examined her, making her squirm under his attention. “With that mobcap on, I might call you Grandmother.”
“Grandmother?” She said it much too loudly, unable to hold back her indignance.
The nickname caught the boys’ attention. “Grandmother?” Robert bent over laughing when he saw her mobcap, and of course Michael joined in.
“You do look like a granny!” Michael cried.
This was reason enough to remove the lacy thing. She plucked it off her head and tossed it onto Mr. Harwood’s lap. “I think a turban will suit my future better. They are rather in vogue just now. I thank you for your gift, but I must respectfully decline.”
Mr. Harwood frowned. “Shall I purchase a turban, then? I do so want to help you achieve your dreams.”
Cassandra ignored the insufferable man. “Michael, Robin—er, Robert.” She shook her head, confusing even herself. “Boys, take your exercise on the lawn. Return in a half hour, please.”
The boys did not have to be told twice. They jumped from their seats and raced to the door, arguing about who would reach their destination first.
Cassandra turned to Mr. Harwood. “About the turban and whatever else you have planned to gift me—it is most unnecessary.”
“I only want to do my part. Being a spinster must be a great deal harder than being a self-proclaimed bachelor, like myself.”
“Don’t I know it.” She was unable to hide the weariness in her voice. Just pretending she wanted it for her future was exhausting.
