“Hello, Dani,” sang one of the girls.
“Not now, Margaret,” Dani said, but she released her hands from his sleeve and stepped back.
Luke nodded up the street, a silent request to keep moving. Danielle Allard turned and continued walking, but her eyes did not leave his face. Luke looked down, ever so carefully crafting what he would say next. He could tell her about her royal blood, the Dinwiddies be damned—but to reveal this as they walked down the street? With her neighbors passing by? With the incredible leverage of Eastwell Park hanging in the air? This felt un-strategic. Why make enemies of her surrogate parents and pile on life-changing news about her heritage?
No. This moment called for one thing: the potential of being mistress of Eastwell Park taking root in her heart.
“In the end,” Luke told her, “I believe the prince thought the estate should have a new landlordanda wife to help him properly manage it. Eastwell Park wants a duo who’ll see the place reborn. Hearing you describe it, I cannot disagree. The house will want a mistress, and I will need a hostess.”
He said this lightly, as if she could take it or leave it. In reality, it was imperative that she take it. He must stoke her desire for the house until it overshadowed her need to know why she was getting it. It was a gamble, but clearly she’d been living in a happy state of ignorance for years. Her parents lacked the courage to reveal her history and risk losing her. Losing her was not a problem for Luke. They would annul the marriage after the rescue, or he would grant her a divorce, or she would point a loaded pistol at his heart and order him to vanish from her sight. However it would happen, they would part ways in the end and she would be better off for it.
And now he endeavored to close the deal. “Do you think,” he added casually, “that your life with the Dinwiddies has prepared you to run a household like Eastwell Park?”
He cut a glance at her. Her expression was blinding.
“Oh but absolutely, Captain,” she enthused. “My surrogate mother was an attendant to Queen Charlotte for years, and my father a social secretary to the king. I was brought up to run a household; to entertain guests of every station; to identify craftsmanship in fine furnishings and fashion and art; to manage accounts and staff; to show benevolence to those less fortunate and deference to those of higher rank. Miriam and Whittle agree that my abilities now exceed the demands of our own cottage. You saw for yourself that the house in New Bridge Road is modest and overrun by Miriam’s cats. This is why I’ve become so involved in the revitalization of the village. I am diligent—tireless, some might say—and I find purpose in improving the lives of others, especially people who have no advocate or sponsor or direction. My work for the parish hall keeps me very busy and I find it rewarding, but there is only so much I can do—a young, unmarried woman alone, the adopted daughter of two pensioners. But if I had— That is, if I was...”
“If we were married and you became mistress of Eastwell Park...” he provided.
“Yes,” she finished on an exhale. “That.”
“Unless I knew better, Miss Allard, I’d think you were ready to make a deal.”
“What I don’t understand,” she amended, holding up a slim finger, “is why me? Why would Prince George, who doesn’t know me from Adam, betroth me to you?”
Luke cleared his throat, cursing his unpreparedness, and his ignorance of this girl, and her parents’ years of concealment.
He was just about to make something up... something about Prince George wanting to see him joined with a local girl... or wanting the owners of Eastwell Park to understand the community... when she stopped walking. One moment she’d been leading him along, snapping geranium leaves from flowerpots, the next she stood stock-still, glaring at the opposite walkway.
“Oh no,”she whispered harshly. “The meeting.”
“What is it?” Luke turned back. He followed her gaze to a middle-aged man in shiny boots and tall hat. He emerged from milling villagers on the opposite street corner. He’d spotted Miss Allard and cut a line for her, striding purposefully into the road. The man was older than Luke but not elderly; he looked smart in fine wool, the cut of his coat distinctive to a London tailor. His expression was irritated and bored—another London hallmark. Was this man a suitor of Danielle Allard’s? Luke wondered. He’d not considered that she might be romantically linked to some local man. This person was twenty years her senior at least, but such a pairing was not unheard of.
Luke looked again to Danielle. Her posture was rigid and her mouth set in a grim line.Nota romantic match, he thought, flooded with unexpected relief.
“This morning,” she told Luke lowly, watching the man approach, “there was a meeting. The committee to restore the parish hall. I missed it to be introduced to you. This man is Giles Stinchcomb, the quarry owner from the town of Maidstone. He never fails to attend my meetings—uninvited, of course—because he wants to buy the parish hall out from under us and restore it himself.”
Ah, Luke thought,village politics. He couldn’t care less about the quarry owner from Maidstone or his tyranny, although the man had conveniently interrupted a very pointed question. Even so, Danielle Allard was agitated, and that annoyed him. This man was smug and overdressed for village life; he also walked directly toward Luke but refused to look him in the eye—andthatannoyed him. It’d been a very long time since Luke had been overlooked by another man. He was no bruiser, but he was tall and broad-shouldered and he’d cheated death more times than he could count. Survival had a way of hardening features, not to mention muscles. This man was either stupid or blinded by his own arrogance.
“Miss Allard,” called the man lightly, his voice almost gentle. He had yellow hair, burnished white at the temples, blue eyes, and a careful manner.
Luke looked at Miss Allard. She was breathing like there wasn’t enough air. He took a step closer.
“You weren’t at your own meeting, Miss Allard,” the man observed.
“I was detained on other business,” she said.
The man studied her. Given the choice, Luke would rather she not endure this man’s critical perusal of her face nor his cool demeanor. Danielle Allard was hardly his responsibility, but Luke hated bullies. He also hated men who helped themselves to uninvited eyefuls and mouthfuls and handfuls because they believed the world was theirs to take. Luke took another step closer and removed his hat.
“It remains my very great hope,” the man said, “that you’ll endorse our offer for the parish hall, Miss Allard. And by endorse, I mean talk up the notion. The hall is an eyesore and a safety hazard. The people of the town should feel grateful that I’m willing to buy the thing. And they look to you. What a fortunate girl, to be so influential.”
“Under what authority do you dictate how the people of this town should attach their gratitude?” she asked.
“Of all the things you might challenge, Miss Allard,” the man said, “my authorityis best left unexplored.”
Luke cocked an eyebrow. That was an unnecessary threat. He looked to Miss Allard, waiting for her rejoinder, waiting for any of the abundant spirit or cleverness she’d shown him. But she kept quiet; she barely raised her head. Luke began to tap his hat against his hand in a slow, irritated staccato. He cleared his throat.
Finally, the man looked up. He studied Luke calmly, like he was trying to find the deeper meaning in a museum piece. Luke met his gaze and held it. Beside him, Miss Allard said nothing. She was either afraid, or furious, or being held back by some unknown loyalty. It would be poor strategy, Luke knew, to knock down a man whom she preferred to remain upright. But he’d had the very devil of a morning. And this bloke was asking for it.
