Page 37 of Introducing Miss Joanna (Once a Wallflower 2)

Charlotte failed to appear at the Venetian breakfast, which proved to be just that, a tasty breakfast served around midday, and neither did she come to the picnic in Richmond the following Thursday. Had Mrs. Lincoln’s ill health kept Charlotte at home?

The next morning, Mr. Ollerton left his card. He called after three o’clock. Jo had just farewelled Mrs. Brownley and her daughter, Caroline, who’d issued an invitation to a musicale the following Saturday.

“I’ve come in the hope you’ll allow me to drive you to the park tomorrow, Miss Dalrymple. They have mended my carriage at last,” Mr. Ollerton s

aid, taking a seat in the parlor.

How attractive was his smile? She’d forgotten. “I should be delighted.” Jo was pleased to see him again. How at ease he was chatting with Aunt Mary. So very good-natured.

When he left, her aunt was full of praise for him. “Few gentleman have such exquisite manners,” she said. “Do you think you might develop a tendre for him, Jo?”

Jo wanted to say yes, but a large dark-haired man whose heavy brows often drew together in a scowl rendered her silent. Was she falling in love with Reade?

“Your father worries that you might become too fond of Baron Reade,” Aunt Mary said as if reading Jo’s thoughts.

Jo gaped at her aunt. “Why? Did Papa give a reason?”

“Not precisely, but you have a certain way of looking at him.”

“I don’t think I look at Reade differently to any other gentleman.” Did she? Was she that obvious?

“And the way he looks at you.”

Jo’s heart thumped. “What do you mean, Aunt?”

“I can’t put it into words.” Thankfully, Aunt Mary’s eyes remained on her knitting. “But I recognize that look.”

How could her maiden aunt know such things? A shiver of yearning passed through her. It was entirely too foolish to think of Reade that way. But she couldn’t help it. Even though she reminded herself of the many reasons she shouldn’t, she woke each day hoping to see him again. But while Reade wished to protect her from harm, he did not love her. And he had no intention of marrying.

She must give Mr. Ollerton a chance. “Mr. Ollerton wishes to take me for a drive to the park tomorrow.” It was always difficult to distract her aunt once she’d settled on a course of conversation.

“How pleasant,” Aunt Mary said, winding wool into a ball. “You make me wish I was young again, Jo.”

She had often wondered about her aunt. “Was there never anyone you wished to marry?”

Aunt Mary’s cheeks grew pink, and her eyes behind the lenses of her glasses became misty. “When I was young. Lord Denzil, Fallbrook’s heir, and I were to become engaged after he returned from the war.” She took up her needles again. “But he did not come back.”

“Oh, Aunt, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“He was the one. I wanted no one else.”

The one. For some women, was there only one true love? And should fate intervene to break them apart, could another man’s love ever be as sweet? Might Jo be one of those women? She feared she could be. As it was for her father. Although he had been seeing more of Mrs. Millet. He’d taken the lady to tea this afternoon. Jo had still failed to warm to Mrs. Millet. But she wanted her father to find happiness again. She picked up the ball of wool that rolled onto the floor and replaced it on the chair. “If Charlotte doesn’t appear at the Johnson’s card party tonight, I’ll call on her tomorrow, before my carriage ride with Mr. Ollerton. She gave me Mrs. Lincoln’s address.”

“Quite the correct thing to do, Jo. I shall come with you. I’ll take some chicken soup. Cook swears it’s a cure for all ills.”

Charlotte wasn’t at the card party. Perhaps she hadn’t received an invitation. Jo played several hands of whist but found it hard to concentrate. Reade did not come, nor did Mr. Ollerton, and the evening seemed overlong. When it drew to a close, she was pleased to go home.

After luncheon the next day, she and Aunt Mary called on Mrs. Lincoln.

Mrs. Lincoln, a small bird-like lady, rose from her chair when the maid admitted them. She clutched a handkerchief in her fingers. “Have you news of Charlotte?”

“No,” Jo said with alarm. “She is not here?”

“No. Oh! I was hoping…” Mrs. Lincoln’s eyes were red-rimmed, her white cap askew. “Do sit down, please, Miss Hatton, Miss Dalrymple.”

She sent the maid away with the chicken soup. “When did you last see Charlotte, Miss Dalrymple? I am beside myself with worry. She went out days ago and did not come home.”

Jo gasped. “Where did she go?”

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