Page 25

Perhapssomeday.

Not as long as Papa is a man of the cloth.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Cuppinghis nape, Darius puffed out his lips in a little sigh.

Oncemore, she noted how the GoodLord had outdone himself when he’d sculpted Darius’s kissable mouth.

“I suppose you should call me Darius, and I shall address you as Araminta since we are to work together closely.”

Aramintaquite liked the sound of that—working together—not addressing him by his given name. Heavens. Papawould have an apoplexy.

Whatwould people say?

DaringMadamQuillheart would do it—call him Darius, that is.

ButMadamQuillheart wasn’t real.

Shedidn’t have to deal with scandal and disgrace.

Norcould Araminta risk even the hint of a scandal. It could ruin everything she had worked so hard for, not to mention what it would mean for her sisters’ futures. No, scandal was best left to the pages of her books, where she could control the story and contrive a happy ending.

“I don’t think that would be appropriate.” Still clutching the book, Araminta shook her head. A rebellious curl slipped loose of her hairpins and pirouetted near her temple.

For pity’s sake.

Whycouldn’t she have inherited Mama’s sleek, shiny locks?

Whymust she possess Papa’s curly hair? He kept his shorn short, but Araminta didn’t have that option.

Darius’smouth twitched in amusement, and he gave the errant tress a flick with his finger.

Herbreath left her lungs in a whoosh.

“It’s only a name, Araminta.”

“True. Nevertheless, I must respectfully decline, my lord.” Though a little thrill pulsed along her veins at the suggestion. “People might misunderstand and have the wrong impression if we are so informal.”

“I should say they would!”

Aramintaand Darius jerked their attention toward the aisle behind them.

EudoraClarke, resplendent in a sea-foam green and ivory walking ensemble, stood there, impatiently tapping her fine leather shoe on the polished wood floor. She looked like she’d just stepped from a fashion plate. Exquisite and poised. A confection of elegance, except for the frown of annoyance distorting her pretty features.

Aramintabarely restrained herself from self-consciously smoothing the front of the sensible white apron she wore over her worn gingham gown.

Shewas not jealous.

Shewas not.

Well, perchance the teeniest bit envious. But the very merest, minuscule amount.

Eudora’soverly protective mother was noticeably absent—a true rarity.

Somuch so that Araminta didn’t doubt Eudora had contrived to be alone with Darius. Or as alone as she could be in a public venue.

“’Twould be most unseemly for a vicar’s daughter to eschew propriety and presume to use a duke’s son’s given name.” Eudora’s tone held the chill of an arctic winter.