Chapter Three #2
Ditty stared at it in horror. Not five minutes in the man’s presence, the man who could make or break her reputation as a proposal planner, and she had damaged his property!
‘Ah,’ she said helplessly. ‘I seem to have—’
‘Oh, don’t fret about it, the thing is falling apart,’ said Mr Paisley with a shrug.
Ditty heaved her trunk a little farther onto the dog cart with great difficulty, panting slightly as she finished. When she struggled to clamber up into the passenger seat, her new client held out a hand but did not look at her.
In turn, she did not look at him—but she could feel him. His hip pressed against hers, the tingling it created, something she should absolutely not be feeling.
‘Ready?’
Ditty placed her reticule on her lap and could almost feel the folded newspaper article within it. It would be the end of her reputation as a proposal planner if she did not manage to make this man smile. And his future betrothed, of course.
‘Ready,’ said Ditty with a deep breath. ‘To Brexley.’
* * *
Henry concentrated on the road rather than on the pretty woman beside him in the dog cart.
Not pretty. He didn’t have time to get distracted by that sort of thing. Romance was for those who wished for their hearts to be broken…and he had already experienced enough of it to last a lifetime. Besides, he had a duchy to restore to its former glory.
That he would, Henry had no doubt. There was a surety in his character which had been there since he had been a child, one which had greatly irritated his brother, and it told him that there would be a solution.
He would find it, and before the town—before his brother—ever found out just what a burden inheriting a duchy really was.
It was thanks to Charles he was here at all, Henry thought dryly, and not up at the Lodge. Nancy needed that bandage looking at, and if he did not settle the debate about whether the whist-table could be left out in the card room, he would soon have a riot on his hands.
But here he was, picking up a proposal planner.
Proposal planner.
Henry snorted, but shot another quick look at the woman beside him.
In truth, she wasn’t what he had expected.
What had he expected? Some sort of fancy Londoner, he supposed. A maidenly aunt in an impressive gown and parasol trimmed with lace, and shoes that had no business being anywhere save for an opera house, with no idea what she was doing in a small town.
But this woman was wearing a bulky pelisse and had managed to heave a rather heavy trunk up without too much difficulty.
He’d felt embarrassed about that, but his tongue had tied and his mind had filled with a haze as he looked at her.
There was a knowing glint of intelligence in her large eyes, and her mouth—
Henry’s gaze snapped back to the road as he drove them toward King’s Street. Don’t even think about it, he told himself sternly. She was here to manufacture romance for that fool of a brother of his, and that was all.
‘What is your name again?’ he said quietly.
So far as he could make out, he would have said she looked piqued at the question. ‘Ditty.’
Henry glanced at her with a wry grin. ‘I’m sorry, you’re named after a short tune?’
A flush tinged her cheeks, highlighting her prettiness in a way Henry tried not to notice. ‘It’s Aphrodite, actually, but I prefer Ditty. Aphrodite Oliver.’
Henry snorted. Of course it was. Aphrodite? What sort of parent gave an innocent child such a name?
No wonder she had ended up a proposal planner. A name like that would make anyone start considering romance a business, not just a feeling.
‘I see.’
Silence fell again between them and for some reason, Henry felt a prickling of discomfort rushing up his spine.
Why did he feel the need to fill the silence? He was a doctor, for goodness’ sake, had been long before he had become a duke; he was the master of lingering silences which his patients and residents filled with what was really on their mind. It was a knack.
So to his own utter surprise, he said gruffly, ‘And you think you’ll be able to do it, then? Get Miss Yorke to say yes?’
Ditty folded her hands in her lap. ‘I have a 100 percent success rate, Mr Paisley, but it is not entirely down to me. I am trusting the courting has been going sufficiently well enough to receive a proposal before I start making my plans.’
Henry nodded. Well, that at least made sense. He would have warned Charles off her immediately if she’d swanned in making all sorts of vague promises.
They didn’t need a charlatan in Brexley. The town could be too trusting as it was.
Mr Paisley. It had been a long time since he’d heard that. The Duke of Glanyrafon was his formal title now, no matter how much he hated it.
‘And you make your living doing this because…’
Why did his mouth just have to talk?
‘Because I am better organised than most people, and because my father died and left myself and my sisters and our mother penniless, and because as I am not the one whose judgement is clouded, I am able to make better decisions,’ said Miss Oliver firmly.
Henry almost laughed. ‘I’m sorry, whose judgement is clouded?’
He drove onto King’s Street as he spoke, the long, winding street that formed the spine, the very heart of Brexley.
His stomach swooped as he looked at the bustling little town; the Cantelli restaurant, the church on the corner with Vicar Melview carefully pruning his roses, the butchers, the library, the bakery on the left.
Precisely as he had known it, all his life.
‘Well, yes,’ said the proposal planner beside him, as though what she was saying was perfectly obvious. ‘People in love cannot be trusted, can they? It’s a chemical imbalance. No, they need someone who can think clearly, who can plan, organise, schedule—but be creative.’
There was such passion and eagerness in her voice, Henry found himself—much against his will—nodding along.
Then he stopped and cleared his throat.
It was so easy, then? To be blinded to reality, to lose oneself utterly in a feeling that could not be trusted—
But no. What he had felt for Georgiana…that had been real.
It had not been reciprocated, in the end…but it had been real. That was when he had promised himself never to allow such weakness, such vulnerability in his heart again.
Still. Henry glanced at her as he took a right, toward the only inn in town.
She wasn’t what he had expected. No prim and proper madam, no scheming swindler out for his brother’s money.
Just…a woman. With a thick pelisse, and a scarf wrapped around her neck. Hands in slim leather gloves. A beauty that needed no adornment, a beauty his body responded to, even if he did not wish it to.
‘We’re almost there—the Rose and Crown. Mrs Fletcher took it over when her husband died and her rooms are good.’
She nodded, and Henry found himself prickled that she had not responded. Well, he knew how he could make her respond, didn’t he? Not that he would be so uncouth as to say—
‘I can’t say I care for your profession,’ he said eventually in a nonchalant voice. ‘Matchmakers and proposal planners the pair of them, it all seems most ridiculous to me. Manufacture romance—I don’t believe in it. But there we go.’
For some reason, Miss Oliver was looking absolutely astonished. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I just think it’s a tad ridiculous,’ Henry said wretchedly. Here he was, opening his big mouth… ‘But that’s neither here nor there, it’s not up to me to—’
‘But it most certainly is— How dare you bring me here under false pretences!’
Henry frowned as he pulled up outside the Rose and Crown. False pretences? He’d brought her straight to where Charles had said, had he not? Taken time out of his busy day to do it, too. The least she could do was thank him!
‘Though I will admit, I am relieved to see there is another businesswoman here who understands the brief.’
Henry blinked. What on earth was she talking about? ‘What?’
‘The inn,’ Miss Oliver said, pointing at where they were approaching. ‘Brexley themed, I assume? I saw the sign. “The home of romance”?’
He glanced at it. It was only when an outsider pointed it out that he really noticed it, but she was right. Mrs Fletcher had rather gone overboard. The windowsills were painted pink. There were little painted hearts, and since when had the weathervane been a little Cupid?
Henry winced. All for the idiotic St Valentine’s Day Festival. The most ridiculous idea to make their town thrive in all the world.
Well, he didn’t have to put up with this for much longer.
‘You are welcome,’ he growled, pulling the dog cart to a stop and glaring.
To his utter astonishment, the proposal planner was glaring back. ‘You have the audacity to bring me all the way out here, in January, too, when I may not be able to get a stagecoach back home for days!’
Henry’s eyes widened. ‘No, you can’t go back,’ he blurted out.
That would be the last thing he needed—to upset his brother’s proposal planner before she even stepped into the inn!
He should have kept his mouth shut. What had he gained but to see ire etched all over the woman’s face?
Still. He wouldn’t be a man if he did not notice just how pretty she looked as she grew angrier.
‘I most certainly can go back if I want to.’ Miss Oliver was almost bristling, she seemed so angry. ‘When you hired me—’
‘Hired you?’ Henry stared. ‘Me?’
What on earth was she talking about? Him, hire her? He’d started walking down that road before and it had ended in nothing but pain. There was no chance he—
Oh. Oh, now he understood.
But the proposal planner obviously hadn’t. ‘Yes, when you hired me! I have to say, Mr. Paisley, I wish I had requested some references of you, rather than merely supplying my own. I have never been so insulted—’
‘Ah,’ said Henry knowingly.
Miss Oliver scowled, evidently miffed she had been unable to continue her speech. ‘What?’