Finding Miss McFarland (2 page)

Elena stepped forward and looped her arm through Delaney’s. “Come,” she said as she urged Delaney to one of the settees lining the outer rim of the ballroom. “I will give you the perfect excuse to rest for a moment.”

But Delaney didn’t need to rest. In fact, she always had too much energy to expend. “I really should stay with my father until we’ve greeted all the guests.”

“Nonsense. We’ll only take a moment.” Elena reached toward a mahogany wine table for a crystal cup of pale lemon punch with a single raspberry floating on top. “Here. You must be thirsty after so many introductions.”

“Thank you.” She
was
thirsty. Between the chandeliers and the dozens of bodies in a single space, the room was rather warm. She took a grateful swallow, draining nearly half the cup. Then she puckered. This punch was far too sour. The tartness lingered unpleasantly on the back of her tongue.

Her cousin leaned forward and took the cup, placing it onto the table for her. “I imagine it’s especially difficult for you.”

Delaney heard the sly inflection in her tone but tried to pretend otherwise. “Oh?”

“With so much of society here because of your father’s fortune,” Elena clarified, as if not wanting to veil the insult. “Then again, that is the way of things with your side of the family. All the men marry for money. It would be impossible for you to tell a genuine friend from an enemy or if a man were interested in you or in your
dowry
. But I’m sure you’ve already fretted over it, since you’ve had those additional years before your debut.”

“How kind of you to point that out, cousin.” Delaney tried to smile but found that the sourness on the back of her tongue had traveled downward and seized her stomach in a terrible grip. It was like the time her mother had made her wear a corset.

It took her a moment to realize it wasn’t a flare of temper that was making her feel this way. Obviously, the nervous frenzy in her stomach didn’t agree with the tart punch.

“Of course,” Elena said, all sincerity. “I couldn’t sleep at night if I didn’t offer a kindly meant warning. You should know what to expect. I hate to say this, but there are true wasps amongst the
ton
. They’d just as soon smile at you as sting you in the back.”

Another terrible grip seized Delaney’s stomach. Damp perspiration caused a wave of heat over her scalp and down her nape. She looked to the doors, frantic for a waft of cool air, but they were closed.

Rising unsteadily, she gripped the back of a nearby chair. “Your candor is much appreciated.”

“Cousin, are you unwell? With your unfortunate coloring, it’s so difficult to tell.” Elena rose from the settee, her head tilted to the side, more in observation than concern. “Truly, you look quite ill.”

“Ill?” her father said, clearly displeased, as he joined them. “What’s this about?”

“It must be nerves,” Edwina Mallory offered, sidling up beside her daughter. “Every debutante has them, no matter her age.”

Her father’s frown deepened. “You’ve picked a damnable time to suffer your first case of nerves.”

“I believe it was the—”
punch
. . . she almost said, but at the mere thought of the sour concoction, her stomach seized again. “I need air.”

Delaney must have looked truly alarming, because her father ushered her toward the doors without another word. He grasped her arm just above her elbow and steered her through the crowd.

At the far side of the room, they paused as a gentleman came forth and opened the doors. “If I may be of assistance, sir.”

Delaney didn’t bother to look at him to determine if he was one of those she’d been introduced to or not. She continued forward, out into the brisk evening air, and gripped the marble balustrade that overlooked their small garden. A shiver rushed over her as the early spring breeze collided with the fine sheen of perspiration covering her skin.

“And you are?” she heard her father ask the gentleman who’d followed them onto the terrace.

Another spasm gripped her, this one climbing up her throat.

“Griffin Croft, sir. My apologies. My father would have liked to have made the introduction, but he was unable to attend.”

“Croft,” Gil McFarland said, apparently oblivious to his daughter’s desire for solitude. “Your father is Marlbrook’s heir.”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Croft replied, his tone cooling by degree. “Though to me, he’s much more than a gateway to an earldom. If you’ll excuse me.”

Delaney had never heard anyone speak to her father in such a clipped, censorious manner. Certainly, behind his back he’d likely had his share of rivals and disapprovers, though never to his face. Gil McFarland wasn’t solely a man with a great fortune but a temper as well.

Curious about the man who dared to tempt the famed McFarland wrath, she released her grip of the railing and turned in time to see Mr. Croft bow stiffly before he started to leave.

“You have not met my daughter, young man.” Though her father’s voice was gruff, surprisingly there was no anger behind it.

Mr. Croft hesitated but not long enough to offend, just enough to spark another flame of interest on Delaney’s part. She watched as he stiffened his broad shoulders as if wrestling between honor and duty. Obviously, someone in his family had wanted him to attend the party, so he must be in need of a bride—and a wealthy one at that.

The man who believed himself more than just the son of Marlbrook’s heir turned back around, his arms stiff by his side. His gaze went from her father to her, and again he bowed.

“Mr. Croft,” her father said, not bothering to conceal the satisfied grin he wore. “It is my pleasure to introduce you to my eldest daughter, Gillian Delaney McFarland.”

This was the first time her father had used her full name during an introduction. Normally, he preferred not to be reminded that such a creature was named after him. Yet at the moment, she didn’t bother to question it. She was too distracted by the man across from her.

Griffin Croft stood an inch taller than her father, with waves of dark hair brushed back from his forehead. In this light, she couldn’t tell if his hair was black or brown, or if his eyes were brown or blue; all she knew was that when their gazes met, she felt a strange crackling sensation beneath her palms. It felt the way she imagined a fire consumed bits of tinder—hot, bright, and skittering over the surface, igniting kindling with dozens of tiny flames.

And like a flame, her gaze became greedy, consuming every nuance of his face, from his elegantly sloped nose to his wide mouth, and from the deep cleft in his chin to the square jaw and the barest shadow of stubble she saw above a clumsily tied cravat.

“Miss McFarland.”

She didn’t hear him at first. There was an odd ringing in her ears. But by looking at his mouth—and a very pleasant one, it was—she could see that he’d spoken.

Miss McFarland
. . . and with those words, his lips pressed together twice. Like a kiss. The idea made her dizzy.

“Mr. Croft.”

A wave of heat assailed her. Then, too soon, another terrible grip seized her stomach. Her vision blurred for an instant, and when she looked down, she saw that he held out his gloved hand, as if to steady her.

Her father’s hand went to her back. “Perhaps it would be best to postpone—”

He never had a chance to finish.

And she never had the chance to turn around and take hold of the railing. Instead, her body betrayed her most cruelly and cast up her accounts all over Griffin Croft’s shoes.

C
HAPTER
O
NE

One year later

P
eering over the rail and down the stairs, Delaney watched Miss Pursglove disappear through the front door. If nothing else, that horrid woman was punctual about her morning errands.

The moment Hershwell, their head butler, closed the door with a click, the air seemed to lift instantly. Delaney drew in a satisfying breath, turned on her heel, and headed in the direction of the morning room.

Buckley was already at his post. Hunched over the gilded writing desk, his pale halo of curls moved in time with the feverish scratching of the quill over the page in the ledger. They’d been meeting in secret each morning for the past few weeks. Of course, it wasn’t common practice to teach one’s servant a trade. For that matter, it most definitely wasn’t common to hire a youth with only one arm to perform the duties of a groom—or
tiger
, rather. But Buckley wasn’t like anyone else. While he was only eleven years old, he seemed to possess a streak of determination that rivaled hers.

“Your report, Mr. Simms,” Delaney said as she moved behind him and looked over his figures.

“I heard Mr. Croft speaking to Lord Everhart. He said that his last horse was a real bone-setter. So I expect he’ll be at Tattersalls this morning.” Impertinent as ever, Buckley didn’t even look up but dipped the quill into the inkpot and continued his accounting lesson. “After that, to Thomas & Bailey’s for a new coat, as he’ll be escorting two of his sisters to the Sumpters’ musicale later this week.”

Good and good. It should be easy to avoid Mr. Croft this week.

Buckley was also exceptional for his uncanny ability to blend in with his surroundings—a talent Delaney never possessed. It made him the perfect spy. She’d been employing him to keep her abreast of all of Mr. Croft’s social activities since last Season. After
the incident
at her debut, she couldn’t risk being seen with that particular gentleman without dredging up the past horror. Not one candidate had been tempted enough by her dowry to overlook it. Nevertheless, she’d come up with a plan.

The idea had started years ago. After constant reminders that she was little more than a living, breathing pile of money, Delaney wondered why she couldn’t use her fortune to her own advantage. More than anything, she wanted to live a life of her own choosing. Regrettably, her dowry made that impossible without a husband. Her fortune would only be released once she married. Even then, freedom was not guaranteed, unless . . . she could find a gentleman who was willing to sign a contract, discharging half the sum to her.

The problem was that
finding
such a gentleman was not at all simple for a societal pariah. The entire matter required discretion. Therefore, in order to find herself a husband this Season, she needed to stay clear of the gossip pages. Which meant she absolutely
must
avoid Mr. Croft.

It was imperative, especially now that much more than her own financial freedom was at stake. Her plan had altered the moment she’d first met Buckley.

Surprisingly enough, she could credit her father for that. If it hadn’t been for his tendency to lose his temper, she never would have discovered Warthall Place. After her father had scared off the last two maids—who’d both had brothers employed as young grooms, or
tigers
—Delaney had gone to Mrs. Hunter’s agency to look into the servant registry. As it was, Mrs. Hunter had run out of candidates for tigers. And that was when she directed Delaney to Mr. Harrison at Warthall Place.

The children of Warthall Place were not born with the privileges Delaney had once taken for granted. Most were crippled and poor, abandoned by their parents and society. Mr. Harrison wanted to change their circumstances because he’d been born with a clubfoot, yet had been given the chance to prove himself. He’d spent his life in service until his benefactor died, leaving him the sole proprietor of Warthall Place. Soon after, his purpose had shifted to finding others like him and giving them a sense of purpose. In a way, he’d given Delaney a sense of purpose as well.

“Watch that you don’t mistake those nines for fours,” Delaney said, pointing to the middle of the page where Buckley had done just that.

He cursed under his breath but immediately started a fresh column.

“Language, Mr. Simms,” she said with a tsk. Yet even as her words came out, a shudder coursed through her.
Blast it all!
She sounded like Miss Pursglove.

Buckley’s head jerked up. He scanned the room and then looked at her. “You gave me a right proper fright. I thought
ol’ Miss Gloom and Doom
was here.”

Delaney fought the urge to smile. “Mr. Harrison would not like to know that one of his charges forgot his manners, would he?”

His shoulders slumped, the empty sleeve of his livery coat drooping. “No, miss.”

She reached out and ruffled his curls, directing his attention back to the ledger. Apparently, her heart had a weakness for impertinent towheaded boys. “Since Mr. Croft will be absent from the park this morning, I’m going for a walk. Finish that column and then leave the ledger in my room before Miss Pursglove returns.”

G
riffin Croft carefully avoided the squeaky bottom stair that usually gave him away. Stepping onto the foyer rug, he headed for the door, pausing only to take his top hat.

“Ah, Griffin. There you are,” his mother said, unexpectedly appearing in the doorway of his father’s study. The woman had ears like a bat. Likely, the whisper of beaver pelt across the glossed rosewood had alerted her to his location. “I sent your sisters to find you, but I see you managed to evade them once again.”

While their home on upper Brook Street was large by townhouse standards, it still did not offer him the tiniest space for a moment of solitude. Of course, he could easily move to his own home, but the truth of the matter was . . . they needed him.

Slyly, he tucked his hat behind his back and returned it to the round table. “I must not have heard them.”

Octavia Croft wasn’t fooled for an instant. Those dark eyes of hers bored directly through his pretense. Beneath the hem of the blue morning dress draped over her plump figure, the toe of her slipper tapped against the floor. “As you know, I’m making the final adjustments to the guest list for the twins’ debut.”

He swallowed. This was precisely the reason he’d wanted to escape. She wanted to know if there was anyone special that he’d like to invite.

There wasn’t.

More than anything, he wanted to give his mother a name, if only to ease her constant worry. Father’s health was failing. After his last heart seizure, it had become harder for him to catch his breath. The title, lands, and responsibility that went with becoming the Earl of Marlbrook were closer than Griffin would have liked. The importance of his finding a bride, producing an heir, and securing the futures of his four younger sisters was foremost on everyone’s mind.