Page 15 of A Lady of Means (Roses and Rakes #1)

Chapter Eleven

The Burn Book of Lady M

His Grace, The Duke of Andover, George Worthington: I would never be so bold as to record scurrilous sentiments about a man of such elevated station, if I only could think of such sentiments to write regarding his character.

* * *

“For once, the flowers arriving on our doorstep are for someone other than you,” Moria’s brother Lawrence chided. Turning to their younger sister Olivia, Lawrence added, “Moria is living proof that the more people are afraid of you, the more flowers you get.”

Moria stifled the urge to kick him in the shins underneath the breakfast table. Ladies did not resort to such behavior. “Don’t you have somewhere else to sleep now?”

“Lawrence, stop baiting our sister,” Jasper called from behind his newspaper.

“Moria’s maneuvers at last night’s inaugural ball, it seems, especially Olivia’s dancing with an eligible Duke, have been successful.

I don’t even recall seeing you in attendance,” Jasper lowered his newspaper to eye their brother skeptically.

Moria preened, smug at the praise, at Jasper sticking up for her.

Lawrence let out a huff and rolled his eyes, and when he left the table, tugged on the end of Moria’s braid.

Slamming her teacup hastily into its saucer, Moria chased after her brother, like they were still in short clothes. She nearly tripped over one of her nephew’s toys in the hall, but when she rounded the corner, the sight before her made Moria stop short, clutching her chest to catch her breath.

The London Pembrooke drawing room, foyer, and dining room looked like the contents of London’s florists had been ignominiously deposited.

Flowers of every shade and variety addressed to both Lady Moria, and on the card Lawrence handed her, her newly debuted and equally lovely younger sister, Lady Olivia.

Olivia entered the sitting room behind her, holding a calico kitten.

The butler and housekeeper had already started sorting through the flowers and cards, but Moria wanted to know if any were from Devyn.

He’d sent them before, it had given her a reason to return them, to prolong their…

whatever they were. Now he was back from Belgium and happening upon her at a ball for the first time, declaring his intent, and she had to, in the light of day, plan her next move.

She felt Olivia’s hand at her elbow. “Moria,” she said, handing her a card, “these are from the Duke. He sent flowers to both of us, but I thought you should read this card.”

“I heard that you have an affinity for orchids. But you, my lady, are no hothouse flower. I’ve arranged a selection for you from my mother and sister’s terrace garden. They persist without constant sunlight and through repeated downpours. A much better arrangement for a lady of all seasons.

George Worthington, Duke of Andover

* * *

When the Duke came to call an hour later, she was still thinking of the thoughtfulness behind the flowers. She sat nervously anticipating him bringing up the Captain, or even Drysdale, readying a plausibly evasive response in her head.

But he didn’t. He only asked after her dancing injury.

Told her he admired her taking pity on Miss Herring.

She wasn’t sure what to make of that. Perhaps it said something of her relationship or potential for one with the duke that she had known him for nearly 14 months and still found him hard to read.

She asked after his family, expecting a cursory answer.

“May I speak plainly?”

Moria had been wanting him to do so for the 14 months she’d known the man. “I adore speaking plainly,” she said, taking a bite of the biscuit on her plate and keeping her eyes on him.

Miss Kelley cleared her throat from her seat to Moria’s left.

“I am not sure that you have had the pleasure of meeting the dowager duchess yet, but she is rather keen for me to marry,” he said, fidgeting with his hands. That wasn’t exactly speaking plainly.

“I can’t imagine why. The longer you are on the market, the longer she curries favors from eager families wanting your…” she looked down at his fingers, “hand.”

“You make me sound like some maidenly debutante.”

“Are our positions all that different?”

This garnered a smile from him, and good god, how did he go anywhere with teeth so blindingly white? He was dazzling. Wasn’t he?

“I concede your point,” he said.

“Can’t imagine a duke utters those words often. I’ll make a note of the date and commit it to memory.”

He laughed. It wasn’t the kind of laugh that incited riots of longing or affection, but she could grow to find it one if she were a patient woman. Wasn’t she?

“I daresay a woman of your conversational powers, with your heart for charity, could make an even better duchess than the dowager.”

“A conceding of the point, a compliment, and flowers on the same day. Why, your grace, if I were a sentimental woman, I might think you were declaring some intent.”

“My intent,” he leaned forward, the napkin resting on his thigh for his teacup and saucer fell between them.

“Allow me, Your Grace.” Moria made a great show of leaning to pick up the linen, replacing it on his thigh where her hands shouldn’t go even if it was the briefest and most testing of touches.

His eyes fell to her breasts, then he cleared his throat and met her eyes.

His green eyes held her for just a breath, she felt warmer than she had a moment before.

“My intent, now that my campaign in Parliament has been successful, is to find a wife this season.”

“A wife.”

“Not just a wife. An impressive match. Someone who proves those who judged me for my mother’s heritage, to be wrong. Someone worth making mine.”

Another man’s words entered her mind at the very same time:

This challenge sounds even more improbable by the moment, and I fear I’ve already lost.

* * *

With the Duke having declared his looming intent and made his goodbyes, Moria was left in the drawing room with only her embroidery hoop and her flowers for company.

But as is the way of large families and sought-after debutantes, this was short-lived.

“Sister,” Jasper entered, followed by a familiar young man. “You have a visitor. Were you expecting the reverend?”

Moria looked around him, her friend Llewyn Fortney gave her a conspiratorial smile from his vantage point across the room.

“The vicar has come to inquire about my salvation,” she said, taking his proffered flowers, noting the unusual inclusion of Jasmine that almost made her eyes go cloudy. “Flirtatious and vacuous debutantes such as myself require extensive effort to convert from our path of destruction.”

“Godspeed,” Jasper said to the man in his sitting room, and exited, twin hounds at his heels.

Moria crossed the room, placing the flowers in a vase over the mantle. “Is it just me, or are your eyes bluer than the last time I saw you?”

Brookevale’s fledgling vicar, a gentle, tender friend who had kept her secrets and sat vigil with all of them, Llewyn Fortney shook his head at her.

“And this beard of yours…” she narrowed her eyes. “Llewyn, you must be beating off the young women of Brookevale with your Bible.”

The man tilted his head back and laughed. “I’ve missed you, you madwoman.”

She swatted at his arm playfully. “Don’t go getting sentimental on me, vicar.”

She took a seat at the tea table and he followed suit. He motioned at the flowers in the sitting room that seemed to be multiplying. “It’s like Vauxhall Gardens in here.”

Moria refrained from asking what a country vicar knew about the infamous pleasure gardens and looked from him to the dozens of artfully arranged flowers, some large arrays of roses, some more exotic flowers, as the men of the ton had heard that she had a penchant for the more unique assortments.

“Oh yes, that,” she shrugged. “It’s just a normal Wednesday around here.”

Llewyn looked at her with knowing eyes. “I remember your partiality to Wednesdays.”

* * *

And suddenly Moria was falling through time, into a sea of remembrances to one blustery day two winters past. Lady Moria had been nearly insensible with fever.

In her delirium, she’d felt the calendar mocking her and her aversion to Tuesdays, as the worst events of her life had all happened on a Tuesday.

Her father shipping off for what was supposed to be a mere nine months, the night that Marcus had died, the night she’d woken with her sheets slick with her own blood.

But Wednesday? Wednesday appeared like a changing of the guard, unaware of what Tuesday had brought.

When she woke to see the date on the calendar, her heart rate had accelerated until she clutched her chest for air.

She usually brought flowers to the mausoleum behind the parish church, not just for Marcus, but for the life they’d created and lost, for the life they’d never even started.

It seemed such an inane and small thing to still consume her when her mother was also ill abed, but there it was.

Somehow, flowers were already waiting there at the mausoleum for the boy she’d loved, the child she’d lost.

She let out a small gasp that sounded more like a sob when she saw it.

The small posy in her hand that she’d dug from the dregs of the garden paled in comparison to this display.

It was vibrant and stark against the snow-covered ground, standing out just as Marcus always had.

Tears burned at her eyelids, she wiped at them with her kid glove, kneeling next to the towering piece of marble.

She grit her teeth as her knees hit the ground, the bitter snow cold against her limbs even through her many layers.

Lady Moria looked around to see who might have seen her before closing her eyes as more tears scorched a path down her icy cheeks.

“My lady, I hope you don’t mind my placing the flowers in your stead.” It was a masculine voice behind her, but it was gentle.