Page 4 of The Duke I Wished For (A Maypole in Mayfair #5)

B last, this woman.

Frustration rumbled through Blake’s chest as he suppressed a groan. The tart in front of him was as lovely as she was empty-headed.

The way she spoke to him was beyond impertinent. Did she have any idea to whom she was speaking? Of course she did. Why else would she have so brazenly accosted him at this party? She’d addressed him incorrectly multiple times now, but that was no doubt further evidence of her indecorous manners.

She had to be aware of who he was, and a man of his station could not afford to have a wife who was filled with such frippery.

He was a duke after all, the fifth Duke of Hathshire.

Still, she was alarmingly beautiful. From the first moment their eyes had locked, he’d been taken with her angelic features.

Which was most inconvenient and, quite honestly, annoying.

Attraction would only serve to muddle his otherwise clear mind.

But her attractiveness couldn’t be denied. From her thick blonde hair that crowned her delicate features, to her large blue eyes flashing up at him, she was perfection. And her smile…lush pink lips pulled up at the corners to reveal pearly white teeth.

It was a face a man could look at for a good long time. Too bad for him, it was attached to a silly featherbrained lady.

Did she not understand that she’d defied social convention and held him hostage for several minutes now?

And then there were her answers. Was embroidery so important? Of course, it was a valued, needed activity. Why, every man wanted?—

But he paused again. Was it actually important that his kerchiefs be adorned? He shifted, the thought unsettling.

He’d come to London, leaving his comfortable country estate, for one specific purpose: to find a wife.

Well, more specifically, he was here to find a wife that might act as mother to his four-year-old daughter. It was time.

He’d been widowed for nearly two years and now that his daughter approached the age of five, she was beginning to suffer from a lack of feminine influence. Or he assumed that was the trouble.

He’d hired a string of nannies, each more well-recommended than the next, each with an impressive resume of accomplishments, and yet none of them seemed capable of helping his daughter, Clarissa.

She retreated further and further into a shell of shyness and of late, she’d even begun a bit of a stutter. It was nothing serious…yet. But he was worried.

His chest seized to think on what her future might hold if he did not find a solution. He’d asked the woman before him what she knew about being a wife and mother and he found himself intensely curious as to what she might answer.

Did she, in fact, understand something beyond a list of accomplishments used by society to measure a woman’s worth?

It was an interesting thought and he found himself leaning forward a bit as he waited for her answer.

“Well,” she said as she licked those lush lips, and for the briefest moment, he was distracted by both the movement, the trail the tip of her tongue took over the plump flesh, and his own reaction to the sight.

He was a man, of course, but it had been so long since he’d really seen any woman beyond her usefulness to his daughter.

“Yes?” Had his voice dropped an octave?

“I do know that being a wife and mother, at least a good one, takes some measure of kindness and consideration that has nothing to do with playing the pianoforte or violin.”

His chest tightened at those words, the rightness of them. Perhaps this woman before him wasn’t so empty-headed after all.

“I must confess—” he started to say, but his words abruptly cut off as her gaze drifted over his shoulder once again.

She had to stand up on tiptoe to see beyond him and as the long delicious column of her neck stretched up, he took a moment to admire her pale expanse of skin, set off by exactly the right shade of purple in her gown.

A woman’s voice called out nearby. “Daffodil?”

Her eyes grew impossibly wide and then she was shrinking down again, ducking to the left. Without a word of request, she reached for his arm and pulled him, yes, pulled him to the right.

Daffodil.

The name suited her. Pretty, sweet, a ray of sunshine in the often gray spring. A sign of rebirth and— He caught himself, realizing he’d begun to wax poetic. What was wrong with him?

Still, he moved as she wished, now truly curious about the woman before him.

“You were saying,” he tried again. “That playing an instrument is hardly the mark of a good mother.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his, and then widened as though she’d forgotten he was even there. “Y-yes,” she stuttered out. “A daughter deserves some kindness and consideration.”

A daughter. His gaze narrowed at those last words, whatever spell she’d previously cast, broken. The comment was so…specific. If there’d been any doubt that she knew who he was and about his situation, her comment now confirmed it.

The chit clearly thought she knew what was best…for him and Clarissa.

“They do,” he answered even as her gaze flicked away again. “And you intend to be the sort of mother who gives such treatment?”

“Mother?” She looked at him then, this time, all that pretty pink draining from her cheeks. “Oh no. I don’t think I should like to be a mother.”

He blinked back his surprise even as his mouth fell open and then he snapped it shut again. Had she not accosted him specifically to attempt to garner his interest?

Was she toying with him? Attempting to make him chase her? Had she found him unsuitable in some way? Or was she just as silly as he’d first assumed?

The last thought made his mouth snap shut once again. “Madame, I must insist that we end this foolish discussion at once. I’ve no time for such?—”

“Daffodil!” This time a male voice cut off his words before he could finish his scathing remark. Or what he’d intended to be a scathing remark.

An older and distinguished-looking man approached, gray at his temples but his back still straight and tall.

“Yes, Papa?”

“Go and see your mother. Quickly. We’ll be leaving soon and she won’t rest until her goal is accomplished.”

Blake watched Daffodil deflate, the air rushing from her lungs even as her shoulders hunched forward. “Yes, Papa.”

She gave Blake a nod, her gaze flitting to his. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

He wasn’t sure he could say the same, but he was certain of one thing. Their meeting had been interesting. “Enjoy your evening.”

Her chin dipped, her gaze casting down causing her eyelashes to flutter on her cheeks. “Thank you.”

But the words rang with some genuine sentiment as though she weren’t just thanking him for exchanging pleasantries but sincerely grateful for something.

His brow furrowed as he attempted to decide what that might be.

But before he could ask, she slipped away. Blake watched her slowly cross the room, her hands clasped together as she approached an older woman and a weaselly-looking man with hungry eyes that seemed to devour Daffodil.

For some reason, the man’s attention toward Daffodil irritated him. He didn’t like the way he looked at her, not that it was his business.

In fact, after her last comments, he knew she was wrong for him in every way possible. He started recounting the list:

Not accomplished.

Her manners were atrocious.

Her temperament was all wrong.

And…

“Daffodil looks a fair bit like her mother did at her age,” her father said, and Blake ripped his gaze from Daffodil, focusing on the man he’d nearly forgotten was there.

“Does she?”

“Lovely, isn’t she?” The other man gave him an almost sad smile as he shook his head, as if to clear his words. “Forgive me, I’m the Earl of Clearwater. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Earl? Well, Blake could say this. Daffodil had the correct lineage. “The Duke of Hathshire. Pleased to make yours.”

The other man’s brows lifted. “Hathshire? We don’t see you in town all that often.”

He shook his head. As Blake was not interested in the man’s daughter, he thought better of sharing that he was here on a wife hunt. But as if to belie his words, he found his eyes straying toward Daffodil once again. “I don’t come often, only when it’s required.”

“Some matter of Parliament?”

“Hmm,” he answered, noting the way the weasel who spoke to Daffodil loomed over her. She appeared to shrink in response, growing smaller in his shadow. Blake’s fist clenched.

“Of course not, they’ve closed for summer, have they not?”

Blake forced himself to attend the man in front of him. What was he getting at? “And you? Why haven’t you retired to the country before the heat of summer sets in?”

“Both my daughters are at Madame Bellafonte’s finishing school. A privilege, to be certain.”

Well, that was interesting. He knew of the school. Any man searching for a wife was sent in Madame Bellafonte’s direction. The woman was rumored to be able to turn even the most wilting wallflower into a glowing jewel.

She’d obviously yet to work her magic on Daffodil.

“A privilege,” he repeated noncommittally.

“And in my opinion, the school ought to help my daughters make the best sort of matches, with men of real substance and worth.” The earl put such emphasis on the last words that Blake found his brows drawing together in confusion.

But a look back at Daffodil offered some explanation.

The man who, if Blake wasn’t mistaken, had just run his fingers down her arm, hardly appeared to be made of either substance or worth. Was he a suitor?

Suddenly, several of her actions began to make sense. Her glances over his shoulder, the way she’d been almost hiding as she’d moved each time he did. She’d not been accosting him nearly as much as hiding from someone else.

Which ought to be a relief. She was all wrong for him and so why should he care if she were or were not interested in a match? And yet, as he watched, he fought down the urge to storm over and forcibly remove that man’s hand from her arm.

Instead, he tore his gaze away and focused back on the earl. “If you would excuse me, my lord, I’ve been absent from my friends for some time.”

The earl gave him a quick nod. “Of course, Your Grace. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance and I hope to see you again.”

Blake sincerely doubted that would happen. His search for the perfect mother for Clarissa would likely ensure that he never crossed paths with Daffodil again.

Still, even as he joined his friends, who were having a rousing discussion on the art of large-game sport, he found himself hardly participating.

Instead, he watched as Daffodil and her parents exited the party, Daffodil’s bottom lip firmly caught between her teeth as that long sweep of lashes rested on her cheek.

Several of her comments echoed through his thoughts. For a girl he’d labeled vapid, he had to confess that she’d made more than one unsettling point.

Which left him wondering if perhaps he was the one who had his priorities all wrong.