He eyed her with a speculative look in his eyes. “Never.”
Thank goodness for that.
“If it meant you would accept a proposal of marriage from me, I might try writing a verse or two for you. It can’t be that hard.”
Her heart contracted in a manner Violet did not like. Not another proposal! Had the world gone mad? She sucked in a breath before responding. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but poetry would not make me change my mind. I’m flattered by your offer of marriage, but I must decline the honor.”
“But you and I are a perfect match. Together we could continue God’s work here after your father has passed.”
Another man who won’t accept a refusal as final. “I’m hoping that my father will last many a year more. I thank you, but I really do not see us as suited.”
His large mouth turned down and his eyes looked twice as soulful, reminding her of an unhappy frog. “Perhaps you will change your mind in the future. I continue to hold out hope.”
Please do not. She forced a smile on her face and gratefully curtsied to mark the conclusion of the dance.
The curate appeared outwardly unconcerned that his suit had failed. Frustration ignited a simmering anger within Violet as he escorted her to her father in silence. Barnaby Swithin immediately turned his back on her in abrupt dismissal and restarted his discussion with his employer.
Violet filled her lungs with deep, calming breaths. She barely had time to regain her equanimity after the curate’s obnoxious behavior before the arrival of Mr William Shorncliffe, Lord Whitton’s estate manager.
Black-haired and solidly built, he towered above her like a large raven over a sparrow. But William Shorncliffe was a kind and lovely man—easy to talk with and interesting. And there was nothing wrong with his presentation, or manners either.
However, even after several years the poor man was still grieving the loss of his beloved spouse and the mother of his six children. Over that time he had made half-hearted attempts to find a new wife—without success.
He still relied on his sister to keep house for him, but she would marry at Easter and he must find a replacement before then. He desperately needed a new wife, but didn’t really want one. It didn’t make sense that he would be her secret admirer, but she must eliminate him from her list.
He wished Violet the season’s greetings, chatted with her about inconsequential matters, then asked if she still had a dance spare for him. All of which showed his good nature.
She offered her dance card and he bent to write his name.
Clearly, he had decided Violet was a good prospect for a second wife. She might appear so, but she had no desire to marry a man who still mourned his beloved wife and who only wanted help in caring for his six children.
Unlike her other suitors, William Shorncliffe remained at her side, chatting about his children in answer to her inquiries about them, until the orchestra started playing again.
Despite his considerable size, William Shorncliffe danced well, light on his feet and sure of his movements. It was easy to enjoy their time on the dance floor. So much so that she delayed her questioning of him.
“Miss Hambleton, if I may be so bold, I would like to know whether you have a happy life with your father at the parsonage?”
She looked up to find Shorncliffe gazing intently at her. Oh no, was this the lead up to another proposal? “I have a satisfying life with my father.” Over his shoulder, she caught sight of Sebastian watching them with a ferocious frown. Confused, she returned her attention to her partner.
“Do you ever yearn for a home of your own and children?”
Heat flooded Violet’s cheeks. “Before I answer, may I ask you a question?”
A crease of surprise flickered across his brow, but he gave a half-smile that she considered encouraging. “You may.”
“Are you a lover of poetry by any chance?”
“Ah, poetry.” His gaze became a faraway look. “My wife loved poetry, especially Mr Keats’ sonnet.”
“Did you ever write your wife poetry, Mr Shorncliffe?”
He gave a huff of laughter. “I tried, but I have no capacity for meter.”
“Not even a ditty, like Roses are red?”
“Ha ha, yes, I wrote my late wife some of those. It’s a long time since.”
“And you haven’t thought to write any more?”
