Page 9 of The Duke I Wished For (A Maypole in Mayfair #5)

B lake looked over at Daffodil, his daughter’s hand folded into hers, and he knew…this was exactly right.

Clarissa skipped along next to Daffodil as the little girl hummed softly to herself. She came to life every time Daffodil came near—and so did he.

She was like the morning sun after a long, dark light. Without thinking, he pulled her a touch closer, leaning down to catch a whiff of her scent. Was that the flowers blooming about them or did she smell of roses after a rain?

They stopped near the maypole, Daffodil pointing toward it as she leaned down close to Clarissa. “Look, they’re dancing. They’ll keep spinning about the pole until they’ve twisted the ribbon tight around it.”

“It’s beautiful,” Clarissa gushed, bouncing up and down. “And the dancers are so lovely.”

Clarissa pointed to Jane and Isabelle. “Those two are my friends. Jane has the auburn hair and you remember Isabelle from our tea party.”

“She’s the one interested in books?” the duke asked as they started forward again.

“That’s right,” she answered, a blush coloring her cheeks. “She has dreams of starting a library for the poor with a rotating set of books from various well-stocked libraries. It’s so honorable. Would that I had such a goal.” Her chin dipped as her gaze cast to the ground.

Blake disliked the dejected set of her chin. Didn’t Daffodil know that she was kinder and brighter than any woman he’d ever met? “I ought to introduce her to my brother. He earned a barony for his valor in the war and the library he inherited is unlike any other in the country.”

She did look up at him then and he was rewarded with the loveliest grin, the sort that made her blue eyes dance in the sun.

Making their way to the vendors, Hathshire purchased several slices of orange, and then they found an open bench to sit and eat them.

Clarissa climbed on one end, Daffodil taking the spot in the middle and then he sat on the other end, one arm sliding along the back of the bench.

His hand brushed the sleeve of her dress, the muslin sliding over his fingers. As the sun filtered through the trees, he listened to Clarissa chatter as they ate. He hardly listened, his attention fixed upon Daffodil until her words filtered into his thoughts, alarm bells ringing in his head.

“And Mr. Bingsworth fell out of my bed in the middle of the night. I was concerned because you don’t know what might be down there on the floor in the dark.”

Daffodil smiled at her, wrapping a comforting arm about Clarissa. “I understand. The dark can be a frightening place. I would make my father come into my room each night before bed and check the wardrobe and under the bed, just to make certain nothing scary lurked about.”

“Did he find anything?” Clarissa asked, setting down her first peel as her attention fixed on Daffodil.

“Nope. I was always perfectly safe.”

“Not even diseases?” Clarissa asked, her voice dropping down to a whisper in a way that made his stomach clench with worry.

“Diseases?” Daffodil asked. “Are you worried about those? They’re very hard to see.”

The little girl nodded. “That’s what Nanny Francis said as well. But that if you weren’t careful, they could hurt you like they did my mother.”

“Oh.” Daffodil looked at him, her eyes filled with alarm.

But he couldn’t utter a word. The moment had caught him so off guard.

It wasn’t that the nanny was wrong exactly but…

to worry a little girl like that, one who’d lost her mother…

His fist clenched to think of it. Why hadn’t Clarissa told him this before?

“Sickness can hurt people sometimes, but not Mr. Bingsworth, and diseases are not something you should worry overmuch about,” Daffodil said gently, brushing a stray hair back from Clarissa’s face.

“Most of them only cause minor sniffles, especially when you’re healthy and strong.

Eat up your oranges and you’ll grow big and strong too. ”

Clarissa smiled at Daffodil, looking relieved. “Eat the oranges?” the girl asked, looking down at the slices still wrapped in a cloth. “That sounds delicious.”

Relief made him limp as he watched Clarissa unwrap another slice. How had Daffodil done it? She’d comforted the child but she’d empowered her too. An action that would help to keep her safe.

As Clarissa started on her second slice, juice began dribbling down her chin and onto her frock.

He pulled out a kerchief from his pocket and reached over Daffodil to wipe his daughter’s chin.

It brought his nose very close to Daffodil’s cheek and he inhaled her scent again, his chest pressing into Daffodil’s shoulder.

He could feel the heat of her, see the thrum of her pulse fluttering in her neck. She turned, her eyes meeting his, and she was so close that he only need lean forward the slightest bit and he could kiss her.

He’d wager her lips were achingly soft and she’d taste as sweet as she smelled.

His hand dropped even as she swallowed. “Would you like me to wipe her frock?”

Without taking his gaze from hers, he pressed the kerchief into her open fingers, wishing for the moment not to end.

But all too soon, she turned back toward his daughter and began dabbing at Clarissa’s top. Then she tapped a finger under the girl’s chin and gave his daughter a winning smile. “There. All better.”

Clarissa smiled in return and began to eat another slice even as Daffodil turned back to him. “Here is your kerchief, Your Grace.”

“Daffodil,” he murmured softly, ignoring her outstretched hand. He was still close enough to see a smattering of freckles across her nose. “I think you should call me Blake.”

“Blake?” Her eyes grew impossibly wide as her lips parted. He couldn’t help himself, he glanced down at them again, marveling at the soft flesh.

“That’s right.”

“I…” She nipped at her bottom lip, only making him want to kiss her more. “I don’t think…”

“I insist,” he answered. And then he found himself reaching up and brushing at a stray lock of her hair, exactly as she’d done to Clarissa moments before.

He heard her breath catch and he found himself grinning in response to the little sound.

“Blake.”

His name sounded good when she said it. Sweet and soft. There was something about the way her tongue rolled over the L that made his chest tight. “Daff.”

Her chin dipped then, a blush spreading across her cheeks. “My sister calls me that and our friends have adopted the name.”

“I like it,” he said without forethought. “I like you.”

“Like?” she replied, but a tiny divot appeared between her brows as the smile disappeared from her lips.

Did she not like him? “That’s right. And Clarissa. She likes you too.” He watched a number of emotions flit across her face, he wasn’t quite certain what each meant.

Daffodil looked over at his daughter, who still happily ate her oranges, and then back at him. “I like her too.”

He did note that she’d not mentioned any affection she might bear for him but he forged on. “It’s no secret that I’m searching for a wife.”

“It isn’t.” Her voice cracked on the second word. Was that good or bad?

“I only thought you might consider taking up the position.”

A silence fell.

He knew the way he’d worded that was wrong when an emotion he could clearly identify filled her features. It was a look of horror.

“Fill the position?”

Blast. It sounded like he was hiring her as a housekeeper. “I meant…”

She shook her head. “I’m certain most ladies would be thrilled with the offer.”

“Perhaps,” he said in answer, knowing it was, at least in part, true. They’d all like to be a duchess. But since meeting Daffodil, all his thoughts on the subject had shifted.

Before, he’d been content to find a suitable bride, one who filled his requirements. His last wife had been that. Why had it not occurred to him sooner to hope for more?

“I’d…I’d be a fool to decline.” Her gaze cast down at her lap.

That wasn’t precisely what he’d hoped to hear. Not wanting to say no was far different than wishing to say yes .

“I know this is all very sudden. I haven’t spoken to your father, but I thought we might discuss it first.” Blast. He was babbling. “Perhaps I’ve rushed?—”

“Your kerchief,” Daffodil said abruptly, setting the square of fabric she’d held in her hand out onto her lap.

“What about it?” He tried not to blow out a breath of frustration. He wasn’t doing a particularly good job of proposing here, but talking about a stained bit of linen she’d used to wipe his daughter’s frock hardly seemed necessary.

“The embroidery. It’s very fine.” Her fingers trembled the slightest bit as she ran a finger over the initials BH.

“I suppose it is.” He shook his head. “But what concerns me is?—”

“It was done by your first wife?” Her chin lifted and her gaze met his, pain pulling at the corners of her eyes. What was wrong with her?

“Yes. Why?” He’d like to toss the square into the bushes and never look at it again.

“Was embroidery on your list?” Her nose wrinkled even as she looked away again.

“List?” But sick dread settled deep in his stomach. He didn’t quite see how all her comments tied together, but he knew they were building toward something he surely wouldn’t wish to hear.

“Of accomplishments you wished for in a wife? Was embroidery on the list?”

Memories of their first conversation made his mouth twitch into a tight line. They’d discussed embroidery once already. He’d been a fool in that first conversation, but he’d not repeat the mistake.

“The list was a foolish?—”

But he never got a chance to finish.

“There you are.” Countess Clearwater stood several feet away, waving at her daughter. He straightened, his mouth growing grim.

Daffodil’s father had been correct, Daffodil looked very much like her mother. Thick blonde hair, clear blue eyes. But that was as far as their similarities went.

Where Daffodil was kind and tenderhearted, this woman was a barely concealed viper. He could feel it, hear it in her voice and her comments, see it in the hard set of her eyes.

“Mother.” The slightest tremor ran through Daffodil.

Instinctively the arm that he’d put on the back of the bench wrapped about her and she leaned into him, seeking his protection.

His chest expanded to know she needed him in this moment, and the desire to fill that need had a muscle ticking in the back of his jaw.

Her mother approached, beaming down at them until her eyes found Clarissa. “Oh dear. She’s got a stain on her dress.”

He felt Daffodil stiffen, though she didn’t answer.

“The gown should not be soaked, Your Grace, and my daughter should have been holding a cloth under her chin. Daffodil, you ought to know better. Nothing is worse than sloppy children.”

Now it was his turn to stiffen. But not in fear. He held Daffodil even tighter as he narrowed his gaze. “I disagree.”

The countess stopped, eyeing him with suspicion even as Daffodil rose from the bench, leaving his embrace. He felt the loss of her heat and grimaced, wishing she’d come back to sit next to him.

She belonged against him. He rose as well, his hand discreetly brushing along the small of her back.

“Did you need something, Mother?” Daffodil asked, her hands tightly clasped together even as her chin notched up.

“It’s nearly time for Madame Bellafonte’s tea.”

They’d been in the middle of a conversation. Granted, not a particularly productive one, but he was certain he could turn the entire thing around if just given a bit more time.

Daffodil looked back at him, her lip between her teeth once again. “This was most pleasant, Your Grace.”

He stood as well. “I quite agree.” Then he stepped forward, taking one of her hands in his. “And I’d like to see you again.”

“We’ll be at the Boreland dinner party,” her mother said with a raised finger. “Will we see you there?”

He winced, knowing he’d just erred. Any mother would push her daughter to marry a duke. And Daffodil’s mother was not just any mother. He very much wanted Daffodil but also, he wanted her to want him in return. And if that wasn’t the case…

“I’ll see you there,” he said with a smile. He’d have to find out one way or the other.