Finding Miss McFarland (15 page)

“Yes, Uncle.” As always, Griffin knew it was better to simply agree.

“Lord Coburn tells me you’ve yet to inquire about his stables.” Without looking up, he dipped the quill into the inkpot and waggled a scolding finger in the same motion. “Because you didn’t heed my advice, he’s already sold the best of his stock.”

“By then I’d already begun discussing a purchase with Lord Amberdeen.” The prestigious mention earned Griffin a speculative glance and then a huff of indignation before Marlbrook set a new stack of documents before him.

“Then there’s the matter of my late son’s estate in Scotland, near Dumfries,” his uncle continued, writing faster, the tip of the quill all but ripping through the parchment. “It will have to be managed, or let out, if you have no intention of living there.”

“I will see to it, Uncle.”

“I doubt you’ll need such a residence, since you’re incapable of ensnaring a bride,” the earl snickered. “Even the ugly ones have their standards.”

Not incapable but selective
, Griffin thought, holding his tongue. There were dozens of young women who’d shown an interest. Though in truth, there was only one who kept him at odds with himself. Only one who’d made him alter his plans numerous times during the week. Only one who compelled him to drive down Danbury Lane half a dozen times each day.

In fact, as soon as he left here, he would do so again.

D
elaney rushed out of number 27 Danbury Lane, clenching a missive between her teeth, while attempting to stuff Tillie’s needlework into her reticule. She was going to be late. Again. With only days before the wedding, this would be the last needlework circle with the four of them until Emma returned as a married woman.

Married,
she thought with a pang of envy. A true marriage. She wondered if Emma would glow the same way Penelope did.

“Ow!” The needle jabbed her. Her brief bout of mawkishness evaporated as quickly as it had settled over her. The letter fell, unheeded, as she hastily stuck the tip of her finger into her mouth.
Blasted occupation
. She couldn’t understand why her friends enjoyed it. She’d much rather go on outings or hold their meetings in the park.

“You seem to be in a hurry this afternoon, Miss McFarland,” Griffin Croft said, startling her with his sudden appearance on the street in front of her.

Her heart pounded heavily. Somehow, she managed to convince herself that the reaction was from shock alone, even as her gaze roamed over him. It was impossible not to admire the way that man sat a horse. Or the way that his gray stallion complemented his gleaming black boots, slate coat, and top hat. Fittingly, he wore a horse collar knot in his cravat today.

As he dismounted, she watched the muscles of his thighs bunch and flex. The day grew suddenly warm. Too warm. Her spencer felt far too thick and constricting. “Is there a point of going anywhere if you are not in a hurry, Mr. Croft?”

He drew in an unmistakable
hiss
through his teeth in that instant, as if he’d landed wrong on his foot. It took him a moment before he turned to face her. But when he did, his eyes were that simmering lake water again. “There are some who prefer . . .”—his gaze dipped to her mouth—“a slower journey.”

Yes, it was far too warm for a jacket today, she decided.

Delaney thought it best not to reply and focused on locating her fallen letter. While there’d been no return address when she saw it on the salver a moment earlier, she’d recognized the black seal as Montwood’s. At last, after two weeks, he’d returned to town. Perhaps now they could settle matters before she changed her mind.

Changed her mind?
Now, where had that thought come from, she wondered.

Unfortunately, her mental hesitation caused her not to notice that Griffin Croft had bent to retrieve her letter. She couldn’t have him noticing the seal. It would only give him a reason to offer another unwanted opinion. The last thing she wanted was a lecture.

She reached out to snatch the letter. At the same time, the dratted needlework unfolded itself and slipped free, falling toward the gutter. “
Blast!
If I’ve ruined another pillow front then Tillie will . . .” Her words trailed off when she realized what she was saying. Or
admitting
, rather.

Mr. Croft came to her rescue, seizing the bundle before it touched the filth. He made a move to hand over both the letter and the fabric but at the last moment pulled them back. “Who’s Tillie?”

“My maid,” she huffed. “Now, kindly stop holding my needlework for ransom.”

Again, he offered but withdrew, a grin toying with his mouth. “Why would your maid care if your needlework were ruined?”

She swallowed, hating the way his gaze sharpened on her as if she were a stain on a new gown. “She wouldn’t.”

“You pay your maid to do your needlework, don’t you?” He issued a low, knowing chuckle. “And here I thought you couldn’t surprise me more. Then again, I don’t think I could imagine you sitting still and patiently plying your needle either.”

He was too perceptive by half.

“Don’t say anything, please,” she said in a panic, feeling her shoulders tense as she glanced down the lane toward the Weatherstones’ townhouse. “They mustn’t find out. If they did . . .” She didn’t want to put her fears into words. It could end her involvement in the circle if they discovered the truth. Losing the only friends she’d ever had would be too much to bear.

He stepped forward, concern etched in his expression. “Hold on, now. I was only teasing, Delaney—
Miss McFarland
,” he corrected. But it still didn’t change the fact that he’d spoken her name and with more tenderness than she could have imagined.

An odd current seemed to pass between them. Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t been conscious of the strange connection they shared for several days. Not since that day she’d taken Griffin Croft to Warthall Place. Since that time, she’d done an excellent job of avoiding him.
Too excellent
. Though she didn’t want to admit it, she feared that he no longer cared to annoy her. No longer cared to arrive at events she knew were outside of his schedule.

And yet, now he was on the street in front of her house, handing over her needlework. Was this meeting mere happenstance? She felt almost desperate to know. “Do you often ride down Danbury Lane?”

“Not often.” Why he gave a wry smile, she couldn’t guess. “This horse will be up for auction next week and the owner has allowed me to . . . sample the wares.”

And he chose to ride down her lane, of all places?

Still, he hadn’t answered her question. She dug a little deeper. “I imagine your sisters keep you quite busy.”

“Somewhat,” he said, but in a way that suggested he wished to be busier. “Though speaking of my sisters, they noticed your absence from Almack’s the other night.”

His sisters had noticed her absence, but he hadn’t. Surely he’d been with them. Now, she almost wished she hadn’t asked. “The reason should be obvious,” she said quietly. Though it seemed he was waiting for an explanation. “I do not have a voucher.”

If he noticed her embarrassment, he didn’t reveal it. “I see. Then you must have attended . . .”

“Lord and Lady Finch hosted a ball.” Quite possibly, it had been the dullest gathering in all of society.
Ball
was a very loose term, considering their only source of music was their daughter on the piano. “The gathering was likely smaller than at Almack’s.”

“Yes, I went there as well, but I did not arrive until later.” His gaze dipped to her mouth with the same intensity she remembered from the Dorsets’ conservatory. “I did not see you.”

He’d gone to the Finches’ ball as well? So then he’d attended Almack’s and then Lord and Lady Finches’. Had he gone for the purpose of seeing her? Delaney could hardly breathe for thinking about it, and hoped—
prayed
—she wasn’t grinning from ear to ear. “I left early.”

He nodded, giving nothing away. “That explains it.”

So he’d looked for her there. And today, it mattered enough to him to ask her about where she’d been. “Did you go to the Finches’ for the purpose of—”

“I’m keeping you from your needlework—”

They spoke at the same time. She wondered if he would acknowledge having heard the first part of her question. He looked at her now as if he
had
heard. As if some part of him wanted to answer.

He searched her gaze. She waited. Surely he could guess what she’d been about to ask. Yet when a moment passed and he said nothing, she realized she’d let her imagination run away with her.

What a ninny!
Hadn’t she warned herself a thousand times against believing for a single moment that a man could form any romantic interest in her? And here she was, practically pining for Griffin Croft.

Without another word, he mounted his horse in one fluid motion, leaving her slightly dazzled. Ninny or not, she quite enjoyed the way he sat a horse.

“You have my letter,” she said, looking up from his well-muscled thighs.

As if an afterthought, he handed down her note but not before he examined the seal on the back. A muscle ticked along the firm line of his jaw. “I see you’ve not abandoned your folly.”

She lifted her hand and attempted to pull the envelope free, but he held it firmly. Her ire ignited. She yanked the letter free. Why could he never leave his opinions to himself? Out of everyone she knew, she thought he understood her reasoning. “I’m shocked you could still say such a thing after visiting Warthall Place. My own folly appears to be in underestimating you, Mr. Croft.”

He matched her hard glare with one of his own. “The only person you’ve underestimated all along is yourself, Miss McFarland.”

Then, with a snap of the reins, he left her standing there on the sidewalk, trying to figure out what he meant. Or why he pretended to care at all.

Frustrated, she ripped open the missive and read it.

At last
! She let out a breath. Montwood wanted to meet. In the note, he gave instructions for the time and place in the park on the day following Emma’s wedding. Yet at the very bottom, he’d written, “I beg of you, do not come alone.”

What was it with men, believing they could order her around and dictate the course of her life? Frankly, she’d had enough.

If there was one thing Montwood needed to understand from the very beginning, it was that Delaney McFarland followed her own rules.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

O
n the day following Emma and Rathburn’s wedding, Delaney sat inside a closed carriage in the park, just as Montwood’s note had instructed. Yesterday had been perfect for a wedding. Bright, golden sunlight filled the church. Emma looked positively stunning and so very regal in her gown. Rathburn had appeared a trifle panicked at first, but the moment Emma was standing by his side, an expression of utter awe fell over him.

It was that look that had drawn Delaney’s first tear of the day.

The second had come at the lavish wedding breakfast. Facing the room at their table, Rathburn bent to whisper in Emma’s ear frequently. And her friend blushed just as often. Delaney caught herself smiling at the memory, if a bit wistfully.

Then again, didn’t every young woman dream of finding her perfect match? For Delaney, that dream would never be realized. Nonetheless, she would settle for having her other dreams realized. By marrying Montwood, she would have the freedom she desired, in addition to the funds with which to aid Mr. Harrison. That was all she needed.

Peering out through the curtains, she noticed a bank of trees up ahead and called to the driver. “Stop here, Dorsey.” It was early, and the fashionable elite had yet to flood the grounds. She imagined that Montwood preferred clandestine meetings. Perhaps that would all change once they were married. Surely a sizable fortune would bring a charming, shadow-dweller like Montwood into the light.

No sooner had the horses stilled than the carriage door opened.

Montwood’s dark head appeared, a dashing smile at the ready. “Miss McFarland, you are ever punctual.” The comment proved how little they knew each other. Then, without invitation, he stepped inside and sat across from her.

Before he could pull the door closed, Buckley appeared outside. Beneath a halo of pale curls, he frowned and cast a somewhat murderous look toward Montwood. “Miss?”

Had he a gleaming sword and armor breastplate, Buckley could not have looked more like a knight determined to rescue her from ne’er-do-wells. “Everything is as it should be, Mr. Simms,” she said fondly, fighting the urge to ruffle those curls.

He gave a curt nod, still casting daggers at Montwood and grudgingly closed the carriage door.

Across from her, Montwood pulled a frown as well. “He’s quite fierce, isn’t he? Though not much by way of a deterrent.”

Puzzled more than alarmed, she asked, “What do you mean?”

“Only that if I chose to run off with you right now, there would be no one to stop me.”

“M
r. Croft, sir!”

At Tattersalls, Griffin turned toward the sound of the familiar voice and away from the crowd admiring his new horse, a beautiful gray high-stepper. “If it isn’t young Mr. Simms. Tell me, what brings you here? If you are seeking my itinerary for the week, I shan’t give it to you.”

“It’s Miss . . . McFarland . . . sir,” the boy wheezed, out of breath.

Griffin quickly looked over his shoulder and pulled Buckley aside, away from the enclosure, so their exchange wouldn’t be overheard. Fortunately, a new auction had begun and the noise of it gave him more privacy. “What is it?”

“She met a gentleman in the park just now. She didn’t say his name, but I’ve seen him before and know him as Lord Lucan Montwood.”

So, she’d met with him after all. Griffin’s blood boiled instantly.

“It isn’t just that,” Buckley said, his mouth twisting into a frown, as if the name had soured on his tongue. “He said that if he should like to run off with her, there’d be no one to stop him.”

Griffin stilled. Rage or not, panic sluiced through him. His heart stopped midbeat. “Where have they gone? Gretna Green?”