Page 23 of Courting the Vicar’s Daughter

“Miss Ames,” he said, his smile somewhat cautious. “Good morning.”

“Mr. Devon.” She curtsied. “It is a lovely morning, isn’t it?”

He nodded and lowered his head, twisting the horse’s lead. It seemed if the man wasn’t permitted to flirt, he didn’t entirely know what to say. Daisy took pity on him by speaking next.

“Are you riding for pleasure or purpose this morning, Mr. Devon?”

He looked up at her, then at his horse. “A little of both, I suppose. My solicitor is coming to meet with me today. I felt it would be a good idea to exercise before being locked away for hours in the library with him.”

He really is trying to learn about his estate. Daisy studied him with greater interest, noting the dark smudges beneath his eyes and the way his smile didn’t grow as it had when she’d first seen him. “You are working with great dedication of late, aren’t you?”

He let out a puff of air and tilted his head back. “I find the way to learn a thing is to devote oneself to the subject, and as I have a lot of time to make up, my devotion to accounts, tenants, and the like borders on religious.”

Daisy bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing. “Sir, you forget yourself. I’m the vicar’s daughter and that was near blasphemous.”

Mr. Devon’s eyes widened and he gestured with one hand, in a supplicating manner. “I beg your—” He stopped when he saw her expression. “Oh, that wasn’t kind, Miss Ames. Feigning insult.”

Daisy shrugged and laid her sheers in her basket, not bothering to hide her smile. Her father would likely lower his eyes in disapproval of her playful tease. And teasing was akin to flirting. It would be best to speak in a more business-like manner. “Where will your solicitor stay while he is here?”

“At the inn. My sister’s house is rather full.” He narrowed his eyes at her, as though suspicious of the change in topic.

“Poor man. While the Sword and Shield is a perfectly respectable place to lay one’s head, they haven’t the best of food.” She let the basket handle rest in the crook of her arm. “Why don’t you stay at Whitewood while you are here?” She asked the question with a tilt of her head and honest curiosity.

The gentleman shrugged and looked away. “It is too large a house for one man.”

Daisy watched him, her new theory of his loneliness, of his need for friends, keeping her on the alert. What was the duty of a friend in a case such as this? Was it to let him speak the lie or beg the truth from him?

“I suppose that’s true. I sometimes feel our house is grown too large, with my sisters away.” She gestured to the vicarage, which was small and humble compared to his grand house. “But I imagine your staff is happy to have you returned, even if for only part of the day.”

His forehead wrinkled. “The staff? I suppose so.” Of course. As a man used to being waited upon, he likely wouldn’t think on the feelings of the people doing the waiting.

“Mm. Whitewood, as one of the larger estates, employees quite a few people even when no one is at home. I think the staff was greatly reduced after your father passed away.” In fact, she knew it had been cut by more than half. Several young maids had lost positions, footmen returned to their families hoping the references in their pockets would be enough to find work outside of tenant fields.

The whole economy of their little village had changed for a time. Eventually, adjustments were made and life continued forward.

Mr. Devon appeared to be considering her words, perhaps understanding all she did not say. “I haven’t given it very much thought. That does explain why my steward was pleased with himself when he told me all economies were taken in my absence.” He groaned and took off his hat. “Can we speak of something else? I am trying to escape thinking of my duties for a few moments.”

Although tempted to say he’d escaped them for several years, Daisy bit her tongue. It wasn’t her place to goad him on more than she already had. Every time she spoke to him of his duties it didn’t seem to end well for either of them.

Though they had grown up not far from one another, they had limited things in common. This made settling upon another topic for conversation difficult.

“What have you enjoyed about your return to Kettering?” she asked at last, studying his handsome face. He didn’t look very much like his sister, Mrs. Gilbert, except for his coloring.

“The ball was diverting,” he said, his lips quirking upward. “Though I think my favorite thing about these past weeks has been being back in the country. It’s beautiful here, as the seasons change.”

Daisy readily agreed on that opinion. “It is as though nature gives one last glorious effort before going to sleep for the winter.” She held her basket out as evidence. “The flowers will be gone soon, but aren’t they pretty in the meanwhile?”

“Asters,” he said, recognizing the blossoms. “I always liked them. They look like daisies—” He broke off suddenly. “Daisies. That’s what you were called years ago.” He stood back, his eyebrows shooting upward. “I knew Augusta didn’t seem quite right. Your sisters always called you Daisy.”

A bewildering sort of warmth spread within her chest as he regarded her. Daisy lowered her head, avoiding his eyes. Why did he disconcert her so much? He’d only remembered her childhood nickname, yet she felt oddly exposed. Or pleased? She couldn’t be certain which, given the odd twitch in her chest.

“So they did.” She adjusted her hold on the basket of the traitorous flowers. “But I am too grown up for such pet names now.”

He spoke as though he had not heard her. “You do strike me as more of a Daisy than an Augusta.” He tilted his head back and crossed his arms, affecting a somewhat triumphant pose that was entirely unwarranted. The horse apparently objected to the tug on its lead as it abruptly nudged his shoulder with its nose.

Daisy laughed as he cast the horse an insulted look. When Mr. Devon turned back to her, she tempered her amusement into an apologetic smile. “It serves you right, speaking my Christian name so casually. I didn’t give you leave to use it, after all.”

“It was merely an observation.” Mr. Devon didn’t appear the least repentant. “And as one who was Christened with an equally unsuitable name, I am uniquely qualified to make that observation. My father insisted I be named after his. Horace.” He shuddered a touch dramatically.