Chapter Three
Lady Daniella neverunderstood why a woman of twenty was considered ‘on the shelf.’ She was neither a book nor a dish, and, with every passing year as the weight of societal expectations fell away, she felt more invigorated than ever.
She’d had her fair share of proposals. Eight, in fact. An unheard-of number of offers with no acceptances. After the first refusal, society had congratulated her on her sensible and discerning taste. After the fifth, society had dubbed her the less complimentary title: ‘London’s greatest tease.’
Her mother was beside herself with exasperation. Her papa merely shook his head each time a suitor left his office, knowing whatever dandy came to call, fortune hunter or saint, his daughter would never have him.
It had been rotten luck to find the perfect man at the end of her first season. After a disappointing round of balls and rides in Hyde Park with people far too charmed by their pretentious outlooks, the dark and mysterious man—though not to her—had disrupted her life with adventure and passion, subsequently ruining every other man in recent and future acquaintance.
And then he’d vanished into the night, never to be seen again, and leaving her with a kiss that was seared in her memory for all time.
Danny sat in the Deime Townhouse drawing room, her book open in her lap and her concentration broken—a travesty LordMullbury had ruined her reading since her most recent study on the growing industry of America was fascinating—when her papa entered.
For a man of five and fifty, he was quite square jawed and shouldered, adding another layer of intimidation to his six-foot height and esteemed title.
Lord Bromley nodded silently to her chaperone—a matronly woman by the name of Mrs. Pebblestone, the woman and her name a credit to her inflexible outlook on propriety—and the woman quit the room, leaving Daniella alone with her papa.
“You refused him,” Lord Bromley said. It wasn’t a question.
The Earl of Mullbury had left, coattails flung behind him, with a loud shout of, “What an insult!”
She was sure the neighbors had heard the disgusting outburst through the brick and mortar.
Her papa, the Earl of Bromley, picked up his pipe from the fireplace mantel and glanced her way as if to check her current state. “He was rather vocal.” He shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t do to have a son-in-law so in love with his own voice. Better to wait for someone more reserved.”
Danny closed her book and rose. She crossed the room and took his outstretched hand, eternally grateful for her papa’s revolutionary ideas on his daughter’s happiness—as in, believing it mattered.
Her mother may have thought Danny was the manifestation of past sins—the reason Lady Bromley was currently church-bound on a Tuesday morning to pray for a more pliable and obedient daughter—but her papa never gave reproach. If the earl thought anything unbecoming of her refusal of eight proposals—nine, including Lord Mullbury—he hid it behind genuine humor and an unfashionably oiled mustache.
“Thank you, Papa.”
He released her hand and turned to the fireplace. “I believe you are a woman of sound mind and impeccable character. If you were a son, I daresay you’d be a force unparalleled by your peers.” He shook his head. “But you are not a son, and a father does wonder.” He patted her shoulder. “You are of fine design and good humor. It is of no wonder why men seek your hand. Old, young, rich, connected. Lord Mullbury, while a honking goose, has an income any man would covet.”
Danny waited. She’d learned men—especially the more internal and cautious of speech, like her papa—had a tendency to speak plainly when given a reflective partner.
He sighed. “Your mother wishes you to marry.”
Danny cringed. “And you, Papa?”
He huffed and put the pipe in his mouth, though he would not light it until she’d left the room. “I wish for your brother to take over my seat in the House of Lords. I wish for your sister to remember her place in public. You...” He smiled. “My wishes for you are selfish ones, my Danny. If you were to marry and leave, I would need to immerse myself in modern employment to avoid your siblings’ natural inclinations towards dramatic nonsense. And I am far too old to start any new endeavors.”
It was not an uncommon statement for her papa. Her siblings were indeed full of sport and vigor, but his cadence held a note of reservation that normally gave way to humor. Today, it gave way to silence.
“Something is troubling you?” she said.
He waved her concern away. “It’s of no importance.”
“Papa.” She waited.
He smiled and relented. “There’s been commotion over the succession of the Grandfellow title and estate.”
“No heir was found?”
“One was found. By Bernard’s estimations, a most suspicious man. Didn’t believe the truth of it until the old man had given the full family tree.”
Their families as close as blood, her papa and the late Duke of Grandfellow had been friends since boyhood—both sharing a neighboring plot as well as the use of the same puffed-up solicitor. Danny took her papa’s hand again. “I’m sure the man was surprised is all.”
Her papa smiled over their clasped hands. “Just so. I plan to ride over this afternoon and offer my support and aid as the new duke settles in.”
