And it didn’t matter that she didn’t yet know she was a princess; or that he’d likely be the one (for his own selfish reasons) to tell her.
The only thing that mattered was recovering his old friend.
Now sipping tea had commenced, nibbling; Fernsby took the lead on chatter. Luke’s mind was an unhelpful blur of observations and appreciations and tiny, popping flares of caution. His most pervasive thought was:This woman has no desire to return to France because she doesn’t know she’s French.And even if she did, likely, she would not want to go. She has no desire for a castle, or royal court, or any opulent thing meant to entice royalty. She is a pretty girl, English in every way, and she has choices—a myriad of choices. She could marry a local boy, she could enjoy a belated Season in London and marry an aristocrat. She could marry no one at all.
Danielle Allard d’Orleans might be young, but she was also the very picture of poise and confidence. And what good was a woman with confidence and choices in a revenge plot? Answer: No good at all.
What Luke required (or rather, one of the many things Luke required) was time to think. He needed to investigate what motivated her and what she desired. He needed to anticipate the ripple effect of learning her identity as a princess. Everything about his revenge and recovery mission must be reframed with this singular woman in mind.
“I wonder if I might have a moment alone with Miss Allard?” Luke asked suddenly.
“Oh dear, I cannot say,” began Miriam Dinwiddie, rising quickly from her chair, sloshing tea, “if this is the best course, considering the two of you have only just met.”
“Might we become better acquainted,” ventured Silas, struggling to stand, “as a family?”
“No, we cannot,” said Danielle Allard. Her voice was not rude, but it also broached no argument. “If I am adult enough to be married”—she eyed her parents—“then surely I can be permitted ten minutes alone with my betrothed. Like an adult.”
“I, for one, endorse this idea,” said Fernsby. “If you can spare me. I might step outside to give my nose some distance from the—” He sneezed.
“You should do,” Luke said. “Perhaps Miss Broom will join you.”
“I would be honored,” said Fernsby, smiling at the astonished girl.
Miss Broom paused in the process of bringing a tart to her mouth.
“Shall we, Miss Broom?” asked Fernsby.
The neighbor girl lowered the pastry. She looked, wide-eyed, at her friend. Danielle Allard nodded gently and said, “Go on, then.”
“Well, if we all insist,” said Silas Dinwiddie, seeing he had no choice.
“We all insist,” said Danielle Allard quietly. “Please. I am perfectly safe. Aren’t I, Captain Bannock?”
“Quite,” agreed Luke, joining in the spirit of half-truths.
And just like that, all of the people and most of the cats drained from the room. Luke was alone with his wife-to-be.
Chapter 4
He’s not terrible.
This was Dani’s first thought. Not in appearance, not in manners, not in bearing. Not in words said or words unsaid.
Not yet.
Granted, Dani knew very little of men. She knew thatoldmen controlled the town council, and their willingness to take risks diminished as they aged. She knew thatrichmen from the Maidstone quarry bullied and bribed the labor force of Ivy Hill to work in their sand pits.
But this man was not old and she had no notion of his wealth. He seemed to possess a cautious, watchful deference that was inconsistent with bullying or threatening. The expression that had seemed predatory in the beginning was perhaps (she now thought) extreme caution. He had not meant to overtake so much as avoid an ambush.
At the moment, he seemed to project discomfort and watchfulness. These were, she admitted, the only appropriate responses to their current situation. What else could he do? Bluster and preen, she supposed. But he hadn’t. He simply considered her. No longer on guard although paying very close attention.
Dani herself was certainly on guard. Captain Bannock reminded her of an actor thrust onto a stage and told to perform with no script. Dani felt the same.
But why, she wondered, was she defending this person? What mattered was that she was being forced to marry him. With no warning. Or input. Or reason.
“Should I address you as Miss Allard?” he asked now, setting his teacup on the table.
“You may,” she said. His next statement, she knew, would stipulate howshemight addresshim.
