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SEVENTEEN
Penfords’ House, Mayfair—London
Almost half fivethe next afternoon
Jack brusheda hand over his jacket pocket, where a pearl-cut engagement ring lay tucked inside a crimson velvet box. It had taken longer to conclude his business, follow up on Francine Willoughby, and shop for the ring than he had expected.
Nevertheless, the soft golden glow shining in the Penfords’ windows eased the tension in his chest.
Aubriella had kept her word and waited for him.
After Jack’s brisk double rap upon the door, Styles, the Penfords’ diminutive butler, opened the door. Expression benign and his head barely reaching Jack’s shoulder, he stepped aside with the grandeur of a prince. “Mr. Matherfield.”
Jack entered, coming up short at the trunks and crates stacked in the foyer on the D’Aremberg patterned parquet floor.
Aubriella had been busy, it seemed.
“Miss Penford’s, I presume?” Jack swept his hand toward the stacks.
Alarm mixed with trepidation assailed him.
At least Aubriella hadn’t left already, but from the array filling the entry, she fully intended to. And this was no visit. She meant to move for good. That she’d been so unhappy she would leave the bosom of her family made his lungs cramp with empathy for her. She was of age. Legally, there was nothing anyone could do to stop her.
“Indeed, sir.” Styles nodded, his expression folding into concerned creases. “She is most determined to vacate the house today.” He darted a hasty glance down the corridor before stepping nearer. “I’ve taken the liberty of sending a message to her parents, but they won’t return in time to prevent her departure.”
Ifthey returned.
Nonetheless, the Penfords’ sincere reactions two nights ago gave Jack hope they truly cared about Aubriella. Besides, the Penfords needn’t cut their holiday short if all went well. He and Aubriella would return to Stockworth Manor betrothed. There, they’d celebrate the most marvelous Christmas ever.
Jack cupped the butler’s thin shoulder. “I have something that I hope”—pray—“will change her mind. Is she in the drawing room or library?”
Naturally, she couldn’t receive him in her bedchamber.
Tipping his lips upward a fraction and amusement gleaming in his eyes, Styles said, “The library, sorting through books to take with her.”
Of course, she was.
“I know the way.” Going over his rehearsed speech one last time, Jack pivoted toward the stairs.
“Shall I request refreshments, Mr. Matherfield?”
Jack paused, then nodded. “Yes, please. Champagne if you have it.”
“Champagne, sir?” Styles’ considerably grizzled eyebrows crawled up his forehead and wriggled there like a pair of great hairy caterpillars in the throes of death. “That’s rather celebratory, is it not?”
“I intend to propose to the most remarkable woman alive.” Smiling like a giddy idiot, Jack patted his pocket. “Wish me luck.”
An unfettered grin split Styles’ face. “Champagne it is, and the best of good fortune to you. How long shall I wait?”
Likely, news of Jack’s intentions would spread throughout the house within minutes, and the servants would brazenly eavesdrop outside the library door.
“I shall ring for you.” Jack continued down the corridor, the confident click of his boot heels echoing with each step. How often had he walked this same path, but never for a reason as important as what brought him to Mayfair today?
He hadn’t even considered what he’d do if Aubriella said no to his proposal.
He wouldn’t give up. That was for certain.
Persistence and patience.
