The curate was everything a woman could want in a suitor—a good, upstanding man who would give Eilidh a comfortable life.
The weesleekitbastard.
Kieran scowled as Simon stopped in front of him.
If Simon found Kieran’s attitude disconcerting, he gave no indication. Of course, he didn’t. Simon was too much the gentleman.
“May I speak with you for a moment?” Simon repeated his question.
“Aye.” Kieran motioned for them to walk on.
Simon fell into step beside him, feet crunching on the gravel path.
The petty part of Kieran wanted to walk quickly, to force Simon to scramble beside him, voice puffing as he tried to talk.
But the charitable bit—the one that Kieran focused on for Eilidh’s sake—recognized that Simon was as much a victim of this situation as anyone.
The man wasn’t deliberately seeking to steal Eilidh away. He simply didn’t know the lay of the land, as it were. Moreover, Kieran knew it would shatter whatever trust existed between himself and Eilidh were Kieran to disclose anything of their shared history to Simon.
And so, Kieran walked in silence. It was one thing to avoid spilling painful truths to Simon. It was something else entirely to smooth the man’s path into conversation. Kieran bit his lips between his teeth.
Simon cleared his throat. “So . . . you were a compatriot of Miss Fyffe’s father?”
“Aye. I was.”
More silence.
Again, if Simon found Kieran’s silence heavy, it did not show. The man was rather unflappable. In any other circumstance, Kieran would have admired suchsang froid.
However, at the moment, he rather wished Simon would give him an excuse to deliver a fist to his perfectly-formed jaw.
“As an old friend of the Fyffe family, you appear to have a somewhat . . .” Simon paused, as if searching for the right word. “. . .avuncularinterest in Miss Fyffe’s future happiness.”
“Avuncular?” Kieran couldn’t stop the word from spilling out, laced with disdain.
The men passed from the parterre garden, through a stone wall, and into the rose garden. A small fountain gurgled in the middle, a winged cupid spitting water.
“Well, yes,” Simon replied. “You obviously care about Miss Fyffe’s future happiness, much as an uncle or some other blood relation would. As she is quite alone in the world, it makes sense that you, as an old friend of the family, would wish to see her well-settled.”
Kieran grunted, as Simon was not technically wrong.
Simon took that as encouragement. “Based on your somewhat censorious reactions to myself, I merely wished to assure you of my honorable intentions towards Miss Fyffe. I desire to make her my wife. She is the loveliest of women, so kind, so sacrificing—”
“What is it you want of me, Mr. Fitzpatrick?” Kieran cut him off. His stomach could not tolerate listening to another man extol the virtues of hiswife. “Miss Fyffe is old enough to make her own decisions for her future. I will not plead your case to her.”
“Of course not,” Simon quickly agreed. “I, too, wish Miss Fyffe to make decisions based upon her own heart. But I would ask for your blessing.”
Kieran stopped, pivoting to face the man. “My blessing? I am not Miss Fyffe’s guardian—”
“Yes, I understand that. But I believe she respects your opinion. And I would not wish to encourage Miss Fyffe to go against the advice of her friends. I want her to retain the relationships that are important to her, if she does decide to accept my suit.”
Kieran stared at Simon Fitzpatrick. The man’s blue eyes dripped with sincerity.
Bloody hell.
Did he have to be so perfect for Eilidh? So conscientious? So well-mannered and gracious? The precise sort of man that Charles Fyffe would have wanted for his daughter.
ButKieran’sblessing?!
