Page 14

T he soft light of spring spilled gently through the lace-curtained windows of the upstairs parlour.

Joy sat upon the Aubusson rug, utterly at ease in her dressing gown, with three of the four kittens clambering over her lap like furry buccaneers.

The fourth had taken up residence in Maeve’s slipper and was gently snoring, much to Maeve’s delight.

“Oh, he is the very soul of mischief,” Maeve declared, her fingers lightly scratching behind the ears of a grey puffball that had just decided her lap was the optimal location for his morning nap. “Honestly, Joy, I never thought I should find such delight in cats.”

Joy smiled wryly, brushing a streak of cream from her sleeve that one of the kittens had left as a gift. “That is the usual effect. They sneak into your heart and wreck your furniture.”

Maeve laughed, her eyes sparkling. “Speaking of sneaking into hearts—did I tell you what Thornhill said yesterday? He remarked upon the particular shade of ribbon I was wearing and said it reminded him of the early spring sky in Ireland. Can you imagine?”

“The man is positively poetic,” Joy drawled, reaching for another roll. “Has he also compared your eyes to dewdrops and your laugh to birdsong?”

“He has not been quite so florid, thank goodness,” Maeve said with a giggle, accepting a cup of chocolate, “but he did offer to send me a book of Irish poetry. I did not know he was so well read!”

Joy grinned at that, tearing off a piece of roll to feed to a kitten that had scaled her knee like a miniature mountaineer. “Beware the literary suitor. They tend to think themselves quite profound.”

“You are cynical this morning,” Maeve said, arching an elegant brow. “Surely you do not begrudge me a little happiness?”

“Not at all,” Joy said sincerely. “I am very pleased for you. I am only mildly amazed you have managed to captivate a duke without once tripping over a potted plant or spilling tea in his lap.”

“I am not so inelegant, thank you,” Maeve said, tossing a napkin at her friend. “Besides, it is your turn next. I have made a list of prospects for you.”

Joy groaned. “Do not say so.”

“Only a short list,” Maeve assured her. “Lord Meredith—good family, tolerably handsome, rather serious.”

“He once asked if cats were safe to keep indoors,” Joy replied flatly.

“Very well. What about Mr. Langdon? He sits a horse well.”

“But rides like a sack of potatoes.”

“Joy,” Maeve said, trying not to laugh, “you are impossible.”

“Accurate, though,” Joy said, her expression unrepentant.

Before Maeve could press the matter further, the clock on the mantel chimed one. Startled, the kittens leapt in various directions, one sliding across the polished floor like a skater.

Maeve rose with a sigh. “It is the Dowager’s at-home day. We had better dress before she finds us still in our wrappers and declares us a disgrace.”

Joy made a face but complied. “At least there will be pastries.”

They dressed quickly, Maeve in a pale blue muslin, and Joy in a soft yellow cambric that made her look younger, despite her maid’s protests. By the time they descended to the drawing room, voices could already be heard from the hall.

“Freddy!” Joy exclaimed in surprise as the butler opened the door to admit Mr. Cunningham.

He was dressed smartly with his usual easy elegance, a well-fitted coat of blue superfine, buff pantaloons, gleaming Hessian boots, and a touch of irreverence in the tilt of his exquisite neckcloth.

If he was not inured to it, Joy would have teased him for being a dandy.

“Ladies,” he said with a flourishing bow. “I beg a private word with Miss Joy before I am required to speak of weather and wisteria.”

Maeve gave a knowing smile. “I shall go and enquire about the…pastries.”

Freddy waited until Maeve had vanished into the next room before turning to Joy and producing a small velvet box from his pocket.

“What is this?” she asked warily.

“A fashion accessory,” Freddy said lightly. “Or a tool…depending on your interpretation.”

Inside the box were spectacles—delicate, with thin gold rims and clear lenses. Joy stared at them as if they might bite.

“I picked them up on my way here.”

“Oh,” she said stupidly, her voice faint.

“You might wear them as an affectation,” he said, smiling. “Like a dandy. I have half a mind to get a pair myself.”

“I think you mean a quizzing glass, Freddy.” Joy picked them up with the same expression she might use for a spider that had wandered into her shoe. She perched them on her nose, blinked once—and then blinked again.

“Well?”

“I can see,” she said flatly, “but I hate how they feel.”

Freddy looked mildly disappointed.

She quickly removed them and stuffed them into her pocket. “But thank you. Truly. ’Twas thoughtful of you.”

He brightened. “You will grow accustomed to them. Besides, why care if you can now see?”

“If only that were the only concern,” she said dryly, but took his arm.

As they entered the drawing room, they found it already humming with conversation. The Duchess of Thornhill was speaking to Lady Westwood, and Mrs. Larkspur had cornered the vicar’s wife. But Maeve was unmistakably ensconced beside Thornhill himself, her entire expression transformed.

Joy watched them for a long moment. They leaned towards each other as if the air between them held secrets, their smiles private, their conversation low. Maeve looked incandescent. Joy could not imagine ever being so transported.

She folded her arms and muttered, “Why is it I feel most unnatural at everything expected of a lady?”

“Because you are a glorious rebel,” Freddy said at her elbow, “and we are all the better for it.”

Joy was about to punch him in the arm when a new voice interrupted them.

“Mr. Cunningham!”

Miss Dorothea Larkspur, curls bouncing, fluttered up like a particularly excitable puppy. She was bedecked in ruffles and emanating rose water.

“What a delight to see you! I was just telling Letty Partridge what an enchanting gentleman you are. I do hope you are to attend Lady Jersey’s musical evening?”

Freddy bowed politely. “Miss Larkspur. How very…sprightly you look this morning.”

Joy raised her brows. Sprightly?

Miss Larkspur giggled. “Oh, Mr. Cunningham, you do tease. Do say you will attend.”

“I must consult my engagements,” he said vaguely, shooting Joy a glance that plainly said rescue me . But Joy merely smiled into her punch.

“Miss Whitford, your gown is charming,” Miss Larkspur added as an afterthought.

Joy inclined her head. “How kind. Your bonnet is…decorative.”

Freddy coughed into his hand.

She gave him a knowing look. Decorative was as good as sprightly.

Miss Larkspur lingered a moment longer, muttered something about her mother, and finally skipped away like a lark indeed.

“She is making a cake of herself,” Joy said under her breath.

“With too much icing and marzipan,” Freddy murmured.

Joy looked sideways at him. “Is that your type?”

“Lord, no. I prefer my cakes solid and fruity.”

She smirked. “Would you call me a fruit cake?”

“Never. A plum tart, perhaps, with just enough spice.”

Joy laughed, and Freddy smiled, watching her.

In the corner, Thornhill was whispering something to Maeve that made her blush and fan herself with a smile.

“Well,” Joy said, straightening, “I suppose it is time we played the game.”

“I thought we were already.”

Before Joy could summon a witty retort, the butler appeared with a gentleman trailing in his wake—tall, sun browned, with a roguish dimple and shoulders that would not have looked out of place in cavalry blues.

“Colonel Edward St. John,” the butler announced.

Joy’s eyes widened ever so slightly. The gentleman bowed with easy grace and offered Freddy a firm handshake. “Cunningham! I did not expect to see you here.”

Freddy grinned. “St. John! I thought you were off fighting wars or chasing smugglers.”

“Both, if I am fortunate,” St. John replied with a gleam of humour in his hazel eyes.

Joy took a moment to appreciate that he looked every inch the sporting gentleman—a fine, athletic frame, strong hands, a sun-kissed jawline, and a smile to warm a girl on a cold day.

“Introduce me,” she commanded, straightening her spine and stepping forward.

Freddy blinked, then chuckled. “Colonel St. John, may I present Miss Joy Whitford. Joy, this scoundrel is Colonel St. John, a school friend of mine and an inveterate stirrer of trouble.”

“Only the worthwhile kind,” St. John said with a bow. “A pleasure, Miss Whitford.”

“I should hope so,” she said, extending her hand. “If I am to be introduced as a command, I ought to live up to the occasion.”

He laughed. “You may consider me duly impressed.”

Joy tilted her head, intrigued despite herself. Well, she thought, this morning had taken an unexpected turn for the better.

The arrival of Colonel St. John disrupted Freddy’s careful sense of order like a rogue gust of wind toppling a neatly laid deck of cards.

From across the room, Freddy observed the newcomer with mild consternation.

St. John, with his sun-burnished charm, broad shoulders, and disarming smile, was exactly the sort of man mothers introduced to their daughters while casually pointing out his status as a second son.

However, a dashing soldier seemed to overcome any reservations a lady might have—especially a cavalryman who would match Joy’s skill on any horse.

And Joy was listening. Not simply hearing, as she did with most people, nodding politely while dreaming of a faster horse or a nap. No, she was listening . Raptly.

She tilted her head, laughed—laughed—and even leaned closer when St. John said something Freddy could not hear.

Freddy’s stomach did something unusual, a slow twist that felt like regret and indigestion had made an ill-fated pact.