She sniffed. “You could have at least let me faint dramatically.”
“I’d rather not catch you if I can help it,” he said dryly.
Phoebe pressed her lips together.
Dorothea drew herself up. “Very well. I shall not marry a cowboy. I shall marry a banker. Or a poet. Or perhaps a man with a shop. Men with shops are less… muddy.” She snapped her folio shut. “Good day.”
She swept past them, feathers bouncing, her perfume trailing like a banner. The door closed behind her with a theatrical swish of skirts.
George sneezed.
Augusta shook her head. “Perhaps she would be better suited to a nice bookkeeper.” She brightened. “Oh! Mr. Pringle is still available.” She gave Phoebe a hopeful look. “Is he?”
“He most certainly is,” Phoebe said.
“Lord help him,” Braxton muttered.
Phoebe had to turn away to hide another smile.
The sisters drifted toward the back room, still chattering about possible new matches for Miss Poppinstock and hypothetical husbands for other brides. Leaving Braxton, Phoebe, and George alone.
Braxton released a long breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Well. That was somethin’.”
Phoebe clasped her hands behind her back. “To be fair, you did say you wanted a wife.”
“I didn’t say I wanted one who hates animals, work, and everything about my life,” he said.
Phoebe’s lips twisted into a smile. “A small oversight.”
George ambled over and nudged her hand. She scratched him behind his ear. “You were very patient.”
Braxton watched her for a moment, a hint of a smile in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
She looked up. “For what?”
“For sayin’ what I was tryin’ to,” he said. “I reckon you spared her a worse disappointment.”
Phoebe shrugged. “Better a brief embarrassment than a lifetime of misery, don’t you think?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
Their gazes held for a heartbeat and her stomach did that odd little flutter, which she sternly ignored.
He went to the desk, rolled down his sleeves and put on his jacket. “Miss Hale,” he said with a wink.
“Mr. Jones,” she replied, her cheeks warming.
He moved away and headed for the door leading to the back. George trotting faithfully at his heels. He probably wanted to speak to Augusta and the others.
Phoebe returned to the table and sat, picking up the same letter she’d been pretending to read earlier. The words swam a little. She pressed the paper flat and drew a slow breath.
She had no claim on Braxton. None at all. He was free to court any woman he liked. He’d come here looking for a bride, and the sisters would keep foisting women at him until they found someone half-suitable.
That was the arrangement. That was the point. And yet…
Just through the door on the other side of the office, Braxton’s low voice rumbled as he spoke with Augusta.
Phoebe tried to focus on the words in front of her. It was more difficult than it had been yesterday. The question now was, would it be worse tomorrow? How was she going to keep herself from falling for Braxton Jones?
