Finding Miss McFarland (6 page)

Her friend laughed. “Of course not. I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long.”

“Give me a full report as soon as I return,” she said without a backward glance as she descended the stairs, intending to dance a full set with either of her cousins.

However, when she skirted passed the potted topiary at the bottom of the stairs, she abruptly crashed into a wall. Or more precisely, a wall of Corinthian blue superfine wool and the solid gentleman beneath. She lifted her gaze . . .
oh
, and not just
any
gentleman either, but the ever-charming, dashing, and
penniless
Lord Lucan Montwood. Rumor had it that he was recently cut off from his family without a farthing. Quite unexpectedly, opportunity arose.

“Forgive me, I—” they both said in unison and then laughed at their syncopated mimicry.

With a rakish grin, he took a step back, snapped his arms against his sides and bowed his dark head. “Miss McFarland.”

“Lord Montwood.” Delaney curtsied, refusing to allow his smile or the fact that he’d remembered her name go to her head. She knew enough to realize that a young gentleman in need of a fortune must marry a young woman in possession of one. Therefore, he likely kept a list of potential candidates. If she were to fault him for knowing her name because of her dowry, then she was indeed a hypocrite. After all, they were the same creatures but in reverse.

Still, she couldn’t resist the temptation to make her observation known. “I must say I’m pleased you remember my name. After all, it’s been above a year since we were introduced.”

His magnetic smile never faltered. “I’ve often wondered why we never seem to attend the same gatherings. Then again, I’ve also noticed that a certain . . .
Mr. Croft
and I frequent the same parties.”

She laughed outright. It probably wasn’t proper. Most likely, she should have blushed and pretended she hadn’t a clue to what he was referring. But that wasn’t her way. “Perhaps I keep a fervent schedule to ensure that he and I are never seen attending the same dinners and balls.”

Though she said it in a teasing manner, the truth wasn’t far off.

Montwood studied her closely for a moment. While his charming countenance remained steadfast, his amber eyes suddenly sharpened. “You don’t strike me as the type to care whether or not the
ton
wags their tongues in your direction. So perhaps there is another reason you avoid him.”

She arched a brow, wishing she had half of Merribeth’s ability for censure in a single look. “That is a bold speech for someone who hasn’t spoken with me above half an hour.”

“Too bold?” He smiled then, flashing a dimple that was nearly impossible to resist.

“Quite.”

“Then allow me to make it up to you.” He glanced over his shoulder and gestured toward the dancers. “This set is nearly over, but I’ve no attachments for the next. That is, unless your card is full.”

“I believe you already knew the answer before you asked,” she said, her smile returning. “I think very few people would accuse
you
of being impulsive.”

For the first time, his façade fell. In an instant, his expression turned hard and cold, revealing the rough edges of whatever it was he fought to conceal. “The few whom I consider friends understand my methods and the motivation behind them.”

In that tense moment, she felt her inner flame spark. Determination filled her. The stark reality of his situation and hers collided in a flash of inspiration. Everything was about to fall into place.

“Then perhaps you would consider me a friend,” she said, living up to her impulsive reputation. Yet in the next breath, she managed to shock even herself. “I have a proposition that, I believe, will aid us both in achieving our ultimate goals.”

G
riffin assisted Octavia Croft down from the carriage and waited in turn for Phoebe and Asteria.

“As much as I love my sister, I’m almost glad she had to cancel her dinner party this evening,” his mother said, unable to conceal her grin as she stared up at the Dorset mansion ablaze with lights in every window. “Although a megrim is a terrible ordeal. I must remember to send her a box of chocolates on the morrow.”

Amused, Griffin wondered if the gift would be an aid for her recovery or an expression of gratitude. “Perhaps another box of chocolates for Lady Dorset as well, for graciously receiving our party at the last minute.”

“The Dorset ball,” his mother breathed the words. “I remember attending these during my Seasons. Who would have thought my dear friend Hortensia would marry Lord Dorset’s heir? And they have a young man just the age for my girls.”

The twins linked arms on either side of their mother. “One young man for both of us, Mother?”

“That would create quite the scandal.”

Octavia shushed her girls and warned them to mind their steps. If the evidence left behind from numerous horses was any indication of the number of guests in attendance, this ball was quite the crush.

“Speaking of scandal,” Phoebe said with a devilish gleam in her dark gaze, “I do believe Bree McFarland and her sister will be in attendance. What do you imagine the chatter will be if you are seen together? Or perhaps even dancing?”

Griffin’s shoulders stiffened as they passed liveried footmen and crossed the threshold. “As a Croft, you would do better not to mention the words
scandal
and
Miss McFarland
in the same sentence, or likely tongues will begin to waggle about
you
.”

The last thing he wanted was to hear about Miss McFarland all evening. Shockingly, he’d found it difficult to put their latest encounter out of his mind.

The twins tipped forward and exchanged a look. Then, as if privy to their unspoken conversation, their mother tutted. “Girls, your brother is right. Besides, you must remember that this Season is not solely for your own benefits but for Griffin’s as well.”

He didn’t respond. They were all counting on him to find a wife and secure the title for the sake of their family. The problem was, he wasn’t any closer now than he had been a year ago. All this time, he’d wanted to feel a sense of connection with his future wife—an ability to share a single look and somehow know . . . everything. So far, he hadn’t found that.

As they ascended the stairs, the hum of voices and swell of music flowed through the open ballroom doors, where two additional liveried footmen stood sentinel.

“I found it strange that we didn’t see the elder Miss McFarland at the Sumpters’ musicale the other night, especially with her father and sister in attendance,” Asteria mused. When they reached the top of the stairs, their mother stepped forward to chat amicably with Lady Dorset.

Not wanting to encourage another mention of Miss McFarland, Griffin ushered the younger twin forward to be introduced to their hosts. Of course, with his sisters being of like mind, Phoebe took up where Asteria had left off.

“And I distinctly recall her mentioning she had plans for that evening, though I cannot think for what.” The purposeful way her gaze slid to his told him that she was more interested in his reaction to the news and not in recounting a fact. “After all, the musicale was the only noteworthy engagement.”

He’d guessed the answer already. Delaney McFarland was still avoiding him, especially after their encounter in the parlor. It seemed that whenever they were in close proximity, disaster ensued. Or perhaps it was just her way.

Again, when he ignored one sister and ushered her forth for an introduction, the other one began. “I’ve given this a great deal of thought, and I believe it was love sickness.”

Griffin fought the urge to release an exhausted exhale to the heavens. “I’m certain you have better things to occupy your mind.” He couldn’t wait to find them enough dance partners to keep them too busy to meddle in his affairs.

“It’s the fluttering,” Asteria stated, as if she were the premier expert on love sickness.

He knew he shouldn’t ask—
oh, how he knew
—because it was just like his sisters to make a nonsensical declaration and leave it at that. It was maddening. Yet they always managed to reel him in. “I beg your pardon?”

She blinked up at him as if he were a halfwit. “From love at first sight. That’s when
it
happened, after all. The moment she saw you.”

Phoebe joined them again. “Then you told him? Good,” she said with a sigh of relief. “Now I won’t have to worry about slipping up and saying it at breakfast.”

“True. It’s hardly breakfast conversation.” Asteria shielded her eyes from the chandeliers as she looked up toward the gallery. “Oh, look. There is Bree now. I wonder where her sister could be.”

Phoebe stepped forward. “Her coloring should be easy to spot. Griffin, do you see her?”

His head was spinning. If these two managed to marry, their husbands would be in Bedlam in under a fortnight. Confoundedly, he found himself scanning the room all the same.

Love sickness? The idea was preposterous . . . and yet somewhat diverting.

After a moment, he spotted Miss McFarland just before she disappeared around a pruned juniper in the corner and slipped behind a grand but narrow tapestry that extended from the floor to the vaulted ceiling. A prickling sensation caused the hair at his nape to lift, almost as if he sensed she was up to no good. Although he couldn’t know that. He barely knew her.

“Perhaps the retiring room,” Asteria said to her sister just as their mother joined them.

“Girls, I told you not to drink too much tea before we left,” Octavia chastised quietly. “However, if you already need the retiring room, you’ll find it up those stairs and to the right.”

Griffin stared again at the tapestry that was nowhere near the retiring room and caught a glimpse of Lord Lucan Montwood disappearing behind the hidden doorway in the same moment.

The prickles at his nape turned into a full-fledged warning bell.

He knew enough about Montwood to know that a woman in possession of a fortune was not safe near him.

“I
know it seems unconventional,” Delaney concluded, watching skepticism darken Montwood’s features.

In the scant moonlight drifting in through the conservatory windows, his brow furrowed. “You said it yourself a few moments ago—we haven’t even spoken above half an hour, and here you are, offering yourself in marriage to an impoverished second son, who by all accounts will gamble away every shilling you possess.”

She held up a hand to clarify. “I’m not offering myself. I’m only offering my fortune. We would keep separate addresses. You would live your life and I mine.”

He shook his head. “Why would you do this?”

“If I were a man with my own means, I’d need never marry. Since I am an unmarried woman, however, I am allowed very little freedom to live how I choose. I want that freedom.” She noticed her hands had clenched into fists as she spoke and made a point to relax them before she continued. “Surely I need not tell you how trying it is to require constant approval from a parent who sees every venture as a foolhardy pursuit.” Rumor had it that his father was an absolute tyrant.

Now, all she had to do was convince Montwood to sign a contract that would release half of her dowry to her. When he sat down on a nearby bench and released a long exhale, it was all the encouragement she needed. Soon, she would be the possessor of her own fortune, and no one could tell her how to use it. Her inner flame flared in triumph.

She was wearing him down.

G
riffin slipped behind the tapestry and entered a long arched hallway. Closed doors flanked either side. Listening carefully at the first, he heard nothing and moved on to the next. His sense of wariness grew as he neared the end of the hall. A slight jog down a narrow passage opened to a conservatory. A very dark conservatory.

The cloying scent of camellia and orange blossom greeted him as he stepped inside. Tall panes of glass formed walls that bowed out toward the garden. Yet only the barest gleam of moonlight made its way through the foliage of potted trees and hanging plants.

He spotted Miss McFarland standing near a fountain in the center of the room. Montwood was only steps away, seated on a wrought-iron bench, his expression severe and thoughtful, as if he were listening to an accounting of his sins by Saint Peter.

“I realize my proposal must seem unusual, even abrupt,” she said as Griffin stepped within earshot but kept to the shadowy path between the trees. “However, I believe a marriage in name only would benefit us both. You would gain a fortune and maintain a discreet amount of freedom, while I would gain my own home, completely separate from yours.”

Montwood sat forward. “And you would do this for me? For someone you hardly know?”

“Barring that you have no other obligations or romantic entanglements,” she said with an ambiguous lift of her shoulders. “It is as much for me as it is for you. The sooner I marry, the sooner the betting books at White’s concerning my dowry will be closed forever. And yes, I can see by the gleam in your eyes that you recognize a way to win twofold, which is fine with me.”

Griffin couldn’t believe his ears. A sudden rush of rage swept through him. He forcibly stopped himself from charging into the center of the room. But as he did, his sole scraped across the tile at his feet.

Miss McFarland looked over her shoulder toward the doorway and then back to her
would-be
groom. “It would be safer to speak of this if you came to call and invited me for a drive in the park.”

“Tomorrow,” Montwood agreed as he rose. “For now, I’ll leave through the garden door and return to the ballroom by way of the terrace. That way, should you change your mind, you wouldn’t be forced into marriage by threat of ruination. Good evening, Miss McFarland. You might very well be my angel of mercy.”

If Montwood had so much as reached out to kiss her hand, Griffin would have charged in like a contender at Five Courts and planted a right solid facer. Thankfully, the dissolute cad slunk back into the shadows. A moment later, the faint squeak of the hinge and then the quiet click of the latch punctuated the fact that they were alone.