She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Koffi’s accent is even worse than mine. We’re probably tied with grammar.”
To her surprise, Mr. Middleton did not laugh. He tilted his head and regarded her seriously. “How much do you know?”
“Vocabulary? Quite a bit of it. I’ve memorized every list I can get my hands on. Grammar? Just what I can puzzle out from books. I’ve never had a proper tutor, and poring over Voltaire and Beaumarchais line by line isn’t the best way to—”
“I’ll write you letters,” Mr. Middleton said without hesitation. “Once in the morning, and once before I retire. You’ll have context, because you know what we’ve discussed before. All the same, I shall endeavor to be as clear as possible. And I shall expect letters in reply.”
“Of course,” she agreed so quickly that the words tumbled over each other. “Could you correct mine, and send them back with yours?”
“I shall be as sharp and harsh as possible,” he assured her. “The porcupine of French tutors.”
She clasped her hands together in excitement.
“I have always longed for a porcupine,” she assured him. “And what of spoken practice? Might we speak exclusively in French when we chance to run into each other socially?”
He narrowed his eyes. “My primitive male brain is starting to suspect this is the first and last house call you wish me to make.”
“It’s not what I wish,” she said honestly. She could not have dreamed up a more perfect man than him. “It’s my grandmother. If she was willing to send for a license at the mere sight of a man bearing flowers—”
“All of them had their heads when I bought them,” he said with a straight face. “I think their current look gives them character.”
“You are the character,” she said with a laugh. “If Koffi hadn’t chased Grandmother away, she’d be—”
Half in love with you herself.
“—dragging us to the altar,” Priscilla finished. “I don’t want to give her false hope.”
Nor him. Now more than ever, she wished she could explain that it was not him she was rejecting, but drudgery. She’d lived a boring, stagnant life long enough. The inheritance was her one chance at something more.
As long as they were both clear that whatever frisson they shared between them could never lead to more, surely a friendship could do no harm. Right?
Mr. Middleton nodded slowly. “I see.”
“Is it…” Her voice trailed off.
Was it what? Fair? He was giving and she was taking. What made her think he had any wish to prolong a doomed friendship?
“C’est le destin,” he said, and swept an elegant bow. “Je m’appelle Thaddeus. Et vous?”
“Priscilla,” she stammered, then realized she’d squandered her first chance to practice French with a true partner. She started again. “Je m’appelle Priscilla. Et je suis… er… enchantée.”
“Cherche les signes,” he said with a crooked smile, then walked to the door. “Goodbye, Koffi. Au revoir, Priscilla.”
“Goodbye, my love!” Koffi squawked. “¡Adios, mi amor!”
Priscilla slumped against the closest wall and muttered, “Merde.”
Chapter 7
Priscilla stalked the perimeter of the Everett ballroom with restless energy. She wanted to be at home, in case Thaddeus sent another letter. She wanted to be here, in case Thaddeus was, too. She wanted…
She wanted Thaddeus, blast it all.
Even the usual amusement of playing the points game had paled in comparison. In the week since his visit, she hadn’t so much as glimpsed him… but their two letters a day had turned to three, then to four. She was forced to admit her eagerness for each one was just as much because they were from him as because of French.
“Ninnyhammer,” she muttered to herself.
So what if her halting sentences and his poetic eloquence had quickly become the deepest conversations she’d ever held with another person? Letters were not the point. She could dash off missives for the rest of her life, if she wished. The goal was adventuring with Papa and Grandfather, and the means to that goal was fluency.
