Page 10

J oy sat cross-legged on the floor of the Whitford sisters’ sitting room, while Camilla, the marmalade kitten, pawed at a ribbon she dangled.

The bright afternoon sunshine streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the comfortable space with a warm glow.

Scattered about were baskets lined with cushions, a spindly-legged tea table, and a few embroidered footstools which had become playgrounds and scratching posts for the kittens.

Maeve, perched on a low ottoman near the hearth, clapped her hands as Mortimer—a grey tabby with a mischievous glint—pounced on a stray tassel that dangled from the stool.

“Oh, Joy, just look at them!” she cried.

“I cannot decide which is more charming, Lord Orville or Mortimer. Come here, you little rascal. I should not have let Grace keep Evalina.” Maeve scooped up Mortimer, who offered a half-hearted squeak of protest before settling into her lap. “I vow, if the Duke?—”

She paused, flushing slightly, then let out a high-pitched laugh. “Oh dear, listen to me. I cannot go a moment without mentioning him, can I?”

Joy gave a dry little smile. “The Duke does feature rather heavily in your conversation these days, I must admit.”

“He is everything a girl could wish for,” Maeve declared, hugging the kitten a little tighter. “Undeniably handsome, and possessed of impeccable manners. It is no wonder half the ladies in the ton are scheming for a chance of his attention.” Her eyes shone with excitement.

Joy was certain it had nothing to do with his illustrious title, and felt disappointment for her plan with Freddy already going awry.

“And I—I alone—may boast of having walked in the park on his arm, receiving fresh lilies from him the very next morning. Is that not the height of romance?”

“Lilies?” Joy repeated with forced enthusiasm. “How thoughtful. I recall you prefer violets, though.”

“Oh, hush. The gesture was beautiful, lilies or not.” Maeve traced small circles on Mortimer’s back. “Truly, Joy, you cannot imagine how it felt to stand beside him in the Row, all eyes upon us, people whispering, ‘Who is that with his Grace?’ It was glorious.”

Joy’s mouth tightened briefly, but she exhaled, offering a nod.

“I am glad for you,” she said, meaning it in her own half-hearted way.

She paused to stroke Camilla, who cuffed her sleeve.

“I think I should hate being so conspicuous, myself—everyone gawping at me, gossiping about every look or word. I do not know why anyone would long to be a duchess, with all the scrutiny it brings.” She found what she said was true.

Not that she ever truly thought she could attract Thornhill anyway.

Besides, he was far too high in the instep for the likes of her.

Maeve shrugged, an unabashed smile curving her lips.

“Ah, but being a duchess also brings an estate, a grand household, influence in Society—why, you could do so much good if you wished to. And for some of us, that sense of accomplishment is appealing. I was brought up to the life, after all, with all its demands and benefits.”

Joy bowed her head, her hair falling forward to hide a small frown. She could not help recalling how her elder sister, Hope, had always dreamed of grandeur: fancy titles, glittering jewels, a court presentation. Joy, in contrast, felt stifled just imagining the endless obligations.

Even as she listened to Maeve’s excited ramblings, a flicker of jealousy stirred within Joy—not that she envied Maeve the Duke, exactly, but a restlessness tugged at her.

She had half-hoped that her close friend Freddy might find his own spark of interest in Maeve.

After all, she reminded herself, Freddy had spoken of courting Lady Maeve.

Yet now, here was Maeve, daydreaming about the Duke, having fallen under his spell of lofty titles and quiet magnetism. Joy felt a small pang for Freddy.

Mortimer suddenly tumbled off Maeve’s lap and landed on his feet with a mutinous squeak.

Maeve giggled, lifting him up again. “Oh, Joy, if only you could see Thornhill as I do. He is not stuffy at all, once you coax him from behind his reserve. Why, just the other evening, he told me a ridiculous anecdote about a parrot in the Duchess’s drawing room that nearly scandalized a visiting bishop by squawking out a most unrepeatable phrase?—”

The door to the sitting room opened, interrupting Maeve’s narrative. A footman cleared his throat. “Mr. Cunningham to see Miss Whitford.”

Maeve raised her brows in delight, setting Mortimer gently down. “Well, that is opportune timing,” she teased, tossing Joy a sidelong glance. “He is come for a diversion, perhaps?”

Joy felt an inexplicable swell of relief. “I should see what he wants,” she said, rising to her feet. The kittens mewed in protest at the sudden removal of their plaything, but Joy left them to Maeve’s cooing attempts to draw their attention back.

She stepped into the hall, adjusting her pale blue morning gown and smoothing any stray wisps of hair that might have escaped her pins. Her hair was always escaping. Freddy stood in the entry, hat in hand, wearing a broad grin. He looked positively smug.

“What mischief are you planning?” Joy asked, eyeing him with mock suspicion.

Freddy put on an expression of wounded innocence. “Must it be mischief every time? Perhaps I have come to carry you off to a delightful surprise—entirely respectable and above board.”

“Your respectable surprises have been known to involve orchard walls and torn petticoats,” she quipped lightly, though her eyes sparkled at the prospect of leaving the town house.

He gave a theatrical sigh. “I resent that insinuation. Come, I have my curricle outside. The weather is splendid, and I promise you something truly beneficial—though you may not thank me at once.”

Curiosity piqued, Joy asked Hartley to inform Maeve and the Dowager she was leaving, then allowed him to lead her out.

As they crossed the threshold, she threw a parting glance to where Maeve waved from the doorway, a kitten perched on her shoulder like a small, furry parrot.

Joy tried not to dwell on how her friend might be daydreaming about the Duke, picturing an elegant wedding, or perhaps receiving more lilies.

Oh, Freddy, you really are letting our plan slip through your fingers.

It had not occurred to her that she should have furthered Maeve’s suit with Freddy by having her accompany them.

Freddy took up the reins of his curricle with a flourish, a pleasant hum of anticipation thrumming through him.

A crisp breeze caressed his cheeks, carrying the faint scent of fresh straw drifting from a nearby hay cart.

He rather liked this time of day, when the sun sat high enough to warm the streets, yet the press of London’s traffic had not reached its peak.

He glanced aside to make certain Joy was comfortably settled on the seat beside him, then he urged the horses forward.

They set off at a brisk trot, the vehicle rolling smoothly over the cobble-stones.

Joy possessed a natural demeanour that soothed him, and though she was neither simpering nor flirtatious, he had always appreciated her company.

Not for the first time, he thought how simple life could be if all ladies were as unaffected as Joy.

But of course, that thought immediately summoned an image of Lady Maeve and of Freddy’s half-hearted—if he was frank with himself—vow to court her.

It wasn’t long before Joy turned to him with a look he knew all too well: arched brow, a hint of challenge in her eyes. Bracing himself for whatever was about to tumble from her lips, he nonetheless felt a fond amusement tugging at his mouth.

“I must ask,” she began, voice lightly laced with admonishment, “do you truly intend to pursue Lady Maeve? Because if so, you are doing a remarkably poor job of it. You have barely spoken to her in days, while the Duke calls upon her regularly, takes her driving in the park, sends her flowers—by the dozen, too. She is quite dazzled.”

Freddy pulled a face in mock horror, letting out an exasperated huff.

“Flowers? Driving in the park? Is that what I must do to win a lady’s hand?

Good heavens, Joy, that sounds positively laborious.

” Deep down, he knew she was right—he had done little to keep pace with Thornhill’s gallant gestures.

Yet he balked at the very idea of following the same mundane approach.

Joy’s snort of disbelief made him smile despite himself.

“You need not be so dramatic. Maeve is a lovely friend, and you once claimed to be interested in her, but for a week you have not so much as enquired after her health. Instead, you dawdle about with me, complaining about your father’s demands. ”

At that, he gave a playful shrug and cracked the slightest grin. “Well, in my defence, you are infinitely more entertaining than a formal call. Maeve is sweet and a beauty, I grant you, but a man can only handle so many fluttering glances and parlour visits before he loses his wits.”

He felt the words come out more sharply than intended, but it was true enough.

The thought of a meticulously planned courtship made him inwardly cringe.

He had no wish to spend hours engaged in tiresome small talk, always on his best behaviour, always mindful of a thousand unspoken rules.

There was a thrill in spontaneity with his chums—a thrill he found more readily with Joy than with half the ladies in London combined.

“So you concede the field to the Duke?” she pressed, arching that brow again.