Page 11

Freddy gave another shrug. “I suppose so. He clearly excels at the gentlemanly arts of courtship—all that polite fuss. I doubt I can match him if that is what Maeve truly wants.” And there, plain as day, was his truth.

If wooing Maeve required elaborate gestures he found stultifying, perhaps it was never a good match.

He straightened in the driver’s seat, eager to change the subject.

“Nor is my future title so lofty. But never mind that. We are nearly at our destination.”

He caught the fleeting expression of puzzlement that crossed Joy’s face as she looked around.

They were on a quieter street, lined with orderly shop fronts and tidy windows.

He knew she would notice soon enough that this was no typical social call or scenic route.

A sign with gold lettering announced the shop he sought: Optician .

He felt his heart quicken with a twinge of concern, hoping Joy would accept his plan with minimal distress.

“Freddy…why are we—?” she began, a note of apprehension colouring her tone.

He offered her a sidelong glance, injecting a gentleness into his voice.

“I promised I would help you with this, Joy. You mentioned that your eyes trouble you—particularly the one—and the very thought of spectacles made you anxious, but you cannot continue stumbling in ballrooms and tripping over lords. I have found a discreet optician who can help.” He mustered a small, reassuring smile.

“No one else need know for now, if that is your worry. At least you can see what he thinks and discover if spectacles would even help.”

Her cheeks flushed, and Freddy could see the conflict flickering in her eyes. She was proud, no doubt, but also practical in many respects. He suppressed the urge to drape a protective arm over her shoulder.

Joy’s voice wavered slightly as she murmured, “I—I do not relish the idea of looking like a bespectacled bluestocking.”

Freddy knew there was more to it than her looks.

She hadn’t seemed to mind the scar, which at the time had been much more evident than glasses would be.

He responded with a teasing wink, hoping to lift her spirits.

“What if you do? If it helps you see without worry, why care about a few stares? I think you will look smart even with them.”

She snorted.

“What about a quizzing glass?”

“You would have me look like a dandy or a dowager?”

“Is it not better to see than to worry over such trivialities?”

Watching her bite her lip, Freddy felt a surge of sympathy.

He was not oblivious to how difficult it must be for her to confront the reality of poor eyesight.

Joy prided herself on her independence; to admit she needed spectacles was an unwelcome reminder of her vulnerability.

Still, he guided the curricle to a halt outside the modest little shop, handed the reins to his tiger, then hopped down to assist her from the seat.

The moment they entered, Freddy was greeted by the cosy hush of the place—a world apart from London’s clamour. Shelves lined the walls, replete with frames and glass lenses glinting in the light. A bespectacled gentleman approached, bowing politely.

“Mr. Cunningham, I presume?” he said in a respectful voice. “And this must be Miss Whitford? Jeremiah Dempsey at your service.”

Freddy cleared his throat, willing confidence into his tone. “A pleasure, sir. We come seeking your expertise.” Then, with a sideways glance at Joy, he noticed her stiff posture, as though she expected the floor to swallow her whole. He smiled encouragingly.

Mr. Dempsey ushered them into a small examining area behind draped curtains.

Freddy let Joy take the chair while he stood a discreet step behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder in silent encouragement.

He felt her tense at the question about reading letters on a chart, and his heart ached at the discomfort he sensed roiling inside her.

She tried reading the chart, faltering as the lines shrank.

Freddy watched with a mixture of pity and determination.

When Mr. Dempsey moved on to different lenses, Freddy forced himself to stay silent, though he wanted to praise her for each correct letter.

Instead, he simply squeezed her arm lightly now and then, hoping to communicate his unwavering support.

Mr. Dempsey was methodical, making notes, humming as he tested Joy’s left eye, then the right.

Freddy heard the optician’s sympathetic tone as he enquired about the accident, and Joy’s halting explanation about falling from a horse two years ago.

Freddy recalled that day vaguely—he had not been present, but he remembered the gossip that followed.

How typically Joy it was to brush aside a grave injury as “just a bit of dizziness and occasional headaches.”

When the time came to inspect frames, Freddy practically leapt at the chance to lighten the mood.

“Could you perhaps show us frames that might suit a lady’s taste?

Something discreet yet sturdy?” he asked, stepping to the display counter.

He watched Joy’s face as she tried her first pair, sensing her mixture of fascination and dread.

“You look rather dashing, Joy!” he proclaimed in earnest. “In fact, you appear like a very dignified scholar who might soon lecture me on some classical text.” He felt a little proud of that line, pleased that she gave a shaky laugh instead of frowning.

As Joy tested different sized frames, Freddy offered murmurs of approval or suggestions.

He caught Mr. Dempsey’s discreet nod when Joy found a pair that provided a good fit.

The relief flickering across Joy’s face—just for an instant—seemed to validate every bit of trouble he’d gone through to arrange this meeting.

The man bowed and assured them the frames would be ready soon. Freddy, feeling a pleasurable sense of accomplishment, guided Joy back outside.

He assisted her into the curricle, then climbed up to settle beside her, taking the reins.

“I hope you are not at outs with me for springing this upon you,” he said quietly, flicking the horses into motion with his whip.

He cast her a sidelong look, trying to gauge if her face revealed any lingering resentment, but her expression was thoughtful, even peaceful.

“No. I…think I am grateful,” she replied softly, her gaze on the passing shop fronts.

“I can scarcely remember the last time I saw letters so clearly. To read again without headache or humiliation—heaven knows I miss burying my nose in a novel—but I do not know if I am ready to sport them at a ball.”

“One step at a time. Maybe next you will confess to your sisters?”

“Perhaps.”

He could only hope.

“Now, you truly must not forget your vow to woo a lady next time. I shall not let you wriggle free so easily.”

He feigned a groan. “Joy, must you remind me of my father’s edict? Are flowers and calls, all that nonsense, truly necessary?”

“Yes, indeed,” she countered, one brow arched imperiously. “Most ladies expect it.”

“But not you, Joy.”

“No, not me. Do not be ridiculous, Freddy.”