Biographies were his passion, not hers. She loved adventure. She wanted to go to Africa. Surely she’d spent the night hunched over a very practical guidebook to the western equatorial states, rather than waste time browsing a dog-eared journal’s handwritten twaddle.
Eight o’clock, nine o’clock, ten. Ten and one minute. What imbecile had decreed morning calls could only be placed from eleven to three, and preferably in the afternoon? Did society not understand the definition of “morning?”
That was it. He was going now. By the time he rounded his carriage and drove from Jermyn Street to Grosvenor Square, the clock would be at least… ten-fifteen. Close enough.
What he needed was a distraction. Something so cute and cuddly and irresistible, no one would even notice him shoving his manuscript inside his jacket and running off.
Thus decided, he gathered Wednesday into her basket and hurried down the stairs to the street below.
At this hour, the streets weren’t crowded. The mile from his home to Priscilla’s sailed by in a trice. Before his bay could even come to a proper stop, Thad was already leaping out of the carriage.
To his surprise, not one but two footmen rushed out to greet him, relieving him of his horse and gig as if disheveled young men with shaking hands and wild bloodshot eyes always dropped by Mayfair at this ungodly hour of the morning.
This had to be the grandmother’s doing, he realized. She had not been subtle in her desire for a marital outcome.
Right now, all Thad wanted to see was his manuscript.
He raised his hand toward the knocker.
The butler flung open the door. “Mr. Middleton, right this way if you please.”
Thad hadn’t given his card. Or mentioned which Weatherby woman he was hoping to see. He hoped he hadn’t just walked into a trap.
When he entered the parlor, it looked much the same as the last time he’d seen it. Which was to say, little was visible at all. Heavy curtains blocked every trace of the early spring sunshine, and a sullen, listless fire did little to brighten the heavy interior.
“Grandmother,” Priscilla was saying, as she tucked a stray tendril behind her ear. “I know you worry about me. I worry about you, too. I promise I won’t forget you.”
“You forget yourself,” Mrs. Weatherby snapped. “A young lady’s duty is to wed.”
Both of them jerked startled faces toward Thad at his unexpected arrival.
“Er,” he said, and made as elegant a leg as possible, given the oversized basket hanging from one arm.
“I suppose he’s here to see your parrot.” Mrs. Weatherby sniffed as if this tendency alone was enough to no longer make him suitor material.
“Actually,” he began, but it was already too late.
Mrs. Weatherby pushed herself out of her chair, shoved past her granddaughter, and left the parlor completely.
“She must… really hate your parrot,” Thad ventured.
“It’s not Koffi,” Priscilla said with a sigh. “She’s still hoping you’ll become overset by male passion, ravish me on the parlor floor, and be forced to make an honest woman of me.”
“I do feel the stirrings of unbridled male passion,” he said gravely.
Priscilla arched a brow.
“And… that is a nice carpet,” he continued as if weighing his options.
A laugh burst from her as she met him in the center of the parlor. “Why are you here?”
“To fetch my journal,” he said at once. “It’s mine. And a mistake. I didn’t mean to send it. It’s just a draft. It needs polishing. Possibly by being tossed into a fire. I even brought ammunition in case we need to work out a trade. It never should have—”
She threw her arms about him and silenced him with a kiss.
“You daft man,” she said when she paused for breath. “Your talent is astonishing. I loved your manuscript. It’s delightful and flattering and makes even my life sound riveting. You’re going to be the most famous biographer England has ever seen.”
“I don’t know if I can handle anyone else reading my work,” he groaned.
