Chapter 22
Midmorning the next day, they were heading home from Mr. Douglas’s. It had been a quicker visit than usual—Mr. Douglas had mostly slept, even when Stephen listened to his lungs and heart with that stethoscope device of his.
Today they’d taken the carriage. It was raining, and Stephen informed her that they’d be taking it more often because of the weather. Drops pelted the roof—Vera felt as if they sat in the bottom of a drum, with a giant tapping his fingers above them.
“So what did you think of Dahlia?” she blurted.
“Miss Warrington?” Stephen tilted his head, frowned. “Why are you asking me about Miss Warrington?”
“I thought she was very kind.”
Of course she didn’t have the courage to ask the question she really wanted to, so she’d come at the subject sideways.
Internally, she shook her head at herself.
Even after they’d resolved their misunderstanding the day before, Vera desperately wanted to know if Stephen had noticed how exceptionally pretty Dahlia was.
She was the type of lady a man would look at and think, she’d make a fine baroness.
“She was pleasant enough, but I thought you’d met her before.”
“Well, yes. I have.” Vera bothered the trim on the edge of her cloak and avoided his eyes.
“If your opinion of the lady is set, it hardly matters what I think of her.” He stretched his long legs into the space between them, crossed them at the ankles, and folded his arms over his chest.
Vera recognized the posture—it meant he was thinking of having a little nap. On the tail of the thought was the realization that she knew him well enough to recognize his habits.
“I was making conversation, is all. It’s what people do on carriage journeys.”
His eyes were already closed; he arched an eyebrow. “More small talk? No, thank you. I’ve already had quite enough after that dinner the other night.”
There it was—he didn’t think of Vera as a regular young lady. Why would he? He’d made the effort to be pleasant over dinner for the people he didn’t know well, but now he and Vera were alone and he’d rather not speak at all.
Vera set her features into a mulish expression. “Very well—we may be silent. You know, I’ve never known a man your age to sleep quite as much as you do. Perhaps it’s you who should call a physician.”
Stephen cracked an eye. “Excuse me?”
“You sleep more than my Great Uncle Bertrand used to, and he was nigh on eighty before he passed. Bumbling Bertie, my brothers used to call him, behind his back.”
Both Stephen’s eyes were open now and fixed upon her, but Vera pretended not to notice.
She looked out the window instead. “He used to sit in front of the fire all day and night, with a little knitted blanket tucked over his knees.”
“As a physician, I learned quickly to get sleep wherever I can.”
“Have you ever noticed that whenever someone points out a quirk of your personality, you blame it on being a physician?” she said archly.
He stared at her; she couldn’t read his expression. It wasn’t energetic enough to be called exasperation, but it might be a duller distant cousin of the emotion.
She continued, “Bertie blamed all his quirks on his age. He used to sit just like you’re doing now. Perhaps I will knit you a blanket to tuck over your knees.”
Stephen closed his eyes and settled further down against the seat. “A knitted blanket would be lovely. I’d like it in green, if you don’t mind.”
“Whatever you like, Bertie.”
There had been a new sense of ease between Vera and Stephen the last few days. It was as if by settling their strange misunderstanding, the final piece of their friendship had been slotted properly into place. She felt more comfortable in his presence than she ever had before.
Vera had never experienced that with an unmarried man before—it was a novelty.
With every other man of her acquaintance, she’d sorted them into two distinct categories—attached, and therefore easy to be around—or unattached.
The unattached ones were difficult, as Vera was always aware of the fact that they were options for marriage, and she knew that they were aware of it, too.
Vera never wanted single men to feel as if she might have ulterior motives for speaking with them—as if she might be trying to coax them into matrimony.
She’d once overheard the Marquess of Salisbury liken the feeling to a fox being pursued by hounds.
Vera never wanted to act like a dog. Yet a distinctly canine growl threatened to build in her chest when she lingered on thoughts of Dahlia and Stephen too long.
Though she now understood that the man had been thinking of the amuse-bouche that evening at dinner—thank goodness—there was no mistaking the interest that had lit the young lady’s eyes when she’d looked at the baron.
The worst part was that Vera couldn’t blame her.
Stephen was intelligent, handsome, and, once you got past the exterior gruffness, very kind.
He cared for his family, his estate, and those who depended upon him for their well-being.
He was titled, eligible, and possessed a remarkably fine set of teeth.
Miss Dahlia Warrington could do far worse.
Vera nibbled her bottom lip with her teeth, concerned at the emotions roiling in her stomach.
Truth was, if Dahlia cast her interested glance upon Stephen, she was sure to succeed.
The only reason the man hadn’t noticed her properly the night of the dinner party was because he’d been thinking of roast beef.
Typical of him, perhaps, but Vera could hardly expect his distraction to continue. Not when Dahlia was so pretty, so charming. Not when they’d surely meet again. So Vera was relieved when an invitation did arrive and it was only for her.
Though it was Candace who’d invited Vera, the tea party was held in a windowed, second-story room at Devon Manor.
“My husband has become quite insufferable,” Adelaide said, easing herself slowly into a chair. Her tone and her smile negated any sting in her words. “He won’t let me out of the house. In fact, he’s probably lingering just outside of hearing distance as we speak.”
“I’ve suggested she make a game of it.” Dahlia leaned forward to pour tea on behalf of her sister. “That she should call for him and time his response with the mantle clock.”
Candace selected a tiny scone from the tiered server. “Be careful in playing games with my brother, Dahlia. He has no qualms about playing them back. I speak from experience.”
“A pity it’s far too cold to be in the gardens,” Adelaide said. “They’re still so lovely, even though all the blooms have gone.”
“The grounds are beautiful,” Dahlia agreed. “I’m so glad I came in time to explore them while the weather was still nice.”
“Percy and I can’t claim any credit for how wonderful the view is—that’s all thanks to Candace.”
“Vera helped,” Candace said.
“Hardly.” Vera smiled. “You’re only being charitable. It’s true I planted some bulbs, once, but past that one small tuft of tulips, I can’t share in any accolades at all.”
“The tulips were stunning.” Adelaide’s eyes were wide with sincerity. “Simply lovely.”
Vera nodded her thanks as Candace hid a smile behind her gold-rimmed teacup. “Have you refurbished the nursery yet?”
Adelaide looked heavenwards as Dahlia snickered. “Percy has taken management of that room firmly in hand. He won’t let me so much as adjust the arrangement of the room without his assistance.”
“You were trying to move the bassinet from one side of the room to the other.” Dahlia shook her head. “Even I thought it was foolhardy.”
“I’m with child, not an invalid.”
“It’s probably for the best,” Candace said. “Percy is always better behaved if he has a project. The last project he took on was wooing you.”
Dahlia grinned. “Indeed. The nursery is just a reasonable byproduct of those efforts, so it’s understandable that he feels some ownership over that as well.”
“I suppose I should be shocked that my unmarried sister speaks candidly about such things.”
“I may live in the city now, but I grew up on a farm.”
“How was London when you left it?” Candace asked, her green eyes round and guileless. “Have you seen any mutual friends lately? Daisy Knope, perhaps?”
Dahlia’s smile widened. “She’s been markedly engaged in the social whirl. Rumor has it she’s planning a grand voyage to America at the end of the year in search of a wealthy husband. Apparently gentlemen there aren’t as finicky about broken engagements.”
“Gentlemen there aren’t even gentlemen,” Adelaide said.
Dahlia canted her head. “I’m not sure it’s such a bad idea. I think more young ladies might have a chance at happiness if they were willing to take such a trip.”
Adelaide blinked. “Certainly you aren’t considering such measures.”
Candace laughed. “Why on earth would she need to? She’s had—how many proposals by this point?”
Dahlia sniffed. “It would be gauche to keep count.”
“A baker’s dozen, last I’d heard.”
“It hardly matters, as none of them were proposals worth accepting.”
“What are you looking for in a husband?” Candace tilted her head.
“She has a list.” Adelaide wagged her eyebrows.
“I hardly think that’s any of your business, as it’s my list.”
Adelaide’s eyes narrowed. “One wonders what could be on the list, if Lord Stanley didn’t make the cut. He’s wealthy, titled, and very handsome.”
Candace tilted her head. “Perhaps a full head of hair is on her list.”
Dahlia turned to Vera, shaking her head. “Do you see why I find reason to escape this house and go riding every day?”
Vera smiled. “Where do you ride?”
“There’s a lovely path out to the garden folly; I usually find myself there.”
Vera frowned. “Oh? I thought you wished to wait and view the garden folly with the baron.”
“Oh, not at all,” Dahlia waved her hand gracefully. “I was only testing a running theory of the household. It proved quite correct.”