The nicety rolled off his tongue. It was the sort of thing a gentleman would say to any female, even if she resembled a mythical Gorgon. The women he knew would think nothing of it; indeed, Imogen had been the first to train him in the art of courtesy.
Even though he had been her family’s servant, one who still reeked of the stews, she’d snuck out to the stables to give him lessons, teaching him his letters and how to speak and act like a gentleman.
It is considered ill-bred for a gentleman to show excessive emotion, she had explained.Feelings should be expressed only in private…and even then, only the pleasant ones. That is how men and animals are different: men have the self-discipline to curb their baser instincts.
He had absorbed Imogen’s lessons, hoarding the time he spent with the angelic daughter of the house like precious coal to get himself through wintry reality. By that time, hismamanhad been in Bedlam, doing worse with each visit, and there’d been naught he could do about it. Thanks to Imogen, his only friend, he’d learned to curb his helplessness and rage, to channel them into something more useful than brawling in the streets like an animal.
“You think so?” Miss Sheridan’s soft words brought him back.
From any other female, the question would be coy. A prelude to flirtation. Seeing the insecurity in her richly fringed eyes, Severin knew that wasn’t her intention.
“The gown suits you well, Miss Sheridan,” he said.
“Thank you. I made it myself,” she said earnestly.
Her artlessness disarmed him. He couldn’t think of another female in his acquaintance who would admit to such a thing. It was clear that Miss Sheridan not only lacked social polish, she didn’t even know what it was. Yet something about the way she looked at him, with wonder and vulnerability, tugged at his gut.
It was the sort of look that Imogen had given him. After he saved her from the runaway carriage, she had considered him her champion.My Knight,she’d called him. She’d told him fantastical stories of chivalrous knights who’d battled dragons to save their fair princesses. That Imogen had found him, a brutish rookery lad, worthy of being her gallant had filled him with pride.
“How talented you are, Miss Sheridan,” he said politely.
“Me Fancy be full o’ talents, Your Grace,” Sheridan said with unmistakable pride. “She washes dishes quicker than anybody I know, bakes pastry so light it could float on air, and being me daughter, there’s nothing she can’t fix.”
Miss Sheridan blushed, either embarrassed at her father’s bragging or at the fact that the skills he listed qualified her to be a remarkable servant. Either way, Severin took pity on her.
“Actually,” he said, “I know there is one thing Miss Sheridan can’t do.”
Sheridan’s eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. “And what would that be?”
“She cannot convince a donkey to move,” Severin said gravely.
Miss Sheridan’s lips tipped up and, by Jove, she had a beguiling smile.
“That is because I’m not a cheat,” she said primly.
“Bribery isn’t cheating,” he countered. “It is a legitimate strategy to achieve one’s end.”
“To achieve one’s end…or to move a donkey’s end?”
Her quip surprised a smile from him. Although she needed polish, she didn’t lack for wit. Or for charm: the sparkle in her brown eyes was rather delightful.
“Both,” he admitted.
Their banter was interrupted by the arrival of Lady Beatrice, who was every inch a duchess in a sweeping gown of blue taffeta. By her side was Murray, whose eyes narrowed upon Severin. At the unmistakable look of challenge, Severin’s hackles rose.
Backing down had never won him anything. He’d come all this way to get a wife…and he couldn’t let himself be distracted. He would honor hismamanand her suffering by excelling in his role as the Duke of Knighton. He would do right by his estate, make his siblings respectable, and sire future generations of Knightons. To accomplish these goals, he needed the right woman by his side.
He bowed to Miss Sheridan. “Please excuse me.”
She lowered her gaze. “O’ course…”
Her voice trailed behind him as he headed toward Lady Beatrice to play his winning card.
4
Two days later,Fancy perched on the bank of the stream, a fishing pole in hand. It was late afternoon, and she’d already caught a pair of fat brown trout, their spotted scales gleaming in the basket on the grass beside her. She hoped to catch a few more fish to feed her brothers’ voracious appetites.
She’d taken off her half-boots and dangled her feet above the water. Now and again, a few cool droplets danced off the river stones, tickling her bare toes. She breathed in the perfume of the outdoors: sunbaked moss, balsam of trees, the mineral richness of the muddy shores. Around her, colorful leaves rustled in their last dance before fall.
