Chapter Four #2
Ditty forced a smile. ‘Well. Charles. You contacted me because you wanted to ensure the perfect proposal—’
Another laugh.
She turned to glower at Mr Paisley. ‘Do you not have somewhere to be in that falling-apart dog cart of yours?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Paisley steadily, holding her gaze. ‘Somewhere I could be doing far more good than you are, I’ll be bound.’
Ditty’s mouth fell open. Well! How could he say such a thing? It was outrageous!
‘Now, Henry,’ his brother began.
But she was not about to let that slide, and she did not need a man, even if a client, to defend her. ‘Then why don’t you go there?’
Heat was flaring in her very bones, but Ditty was not going to allow herself to be overwhelmed.
‘Because I want to make sure my brother isn’t being robbed,’ Henry said calmly. ‘You never know, someone coming from London, making all sorts of promises—’
‘I make no promises, no guarantees, save that of a perfect proposal!’ Ditty could hear the pain in her own voice and hated he was able to disquiet her so easily. ‘It’s up to my client, your brother, what happens next, and I don’t know why you would need to—to check up on me!’
‘Just doing my brotherly duty.’
‘So what precisely is the problem?’ Ditty asked Mr Paisley sharply, heart hammering in what could only be anger. ‘All I have done is come to your precious town and tried to do my job.’
* * *
Henry stared at the woman who appeared determined to take offence.
His problem? His problem?
Wasn’t it obvious? Didn’t the whole world think it odd that anyone, let alone his brother, would pay another to ask perhaps the most important question of his life? The longer he had sat listening to Miss Oliver do her job the more infuriated he got.
‘You honestly don’t know?’
The words had slipped from his lips before Henry could stop them, but he could already see his brother was not happy about it.
‘Henry, go back to the Lodge,’ Charles snapped, all geniality gone. ‘You’re not helping here—’
‘No, let him stay and explain himself,’ said Miss Oliver sharply, slamming her notebook shut in her lap. ‘I want him to justify what precisely is going on here.’
Henry swallowed. He had not intended this to become so confrontational. He supposed he should be grateful they could have this out in the privacy of his brother’s house, rather than outside Mrs Fletcher’s inn.
But he couldn’t just keep his opinion to himself—he never had. He wasn’t about to start now just to make this proposal planner feel better.
‘It’s simple,’ Henry said, prickles of discomfort radiating across his chest. ‘You cannot manufacture romance, Miss Aphrodite Oliver, no matter what you’re called.’
There. He’d said it.
Part of him was pleased with himself. He wasn’t going to allow himself to be pushed about by an outsider, especially one who was likely charging his brother tens, perhaps even a hundred pounds to be told to wear a nice cravat, say nice things and follow the ridiculous new fashion of offering a ring.
There had been Paisleys serving as vicars of the church here for four generations—five generations were buried in the church graveyard.
His grandfather, Henry knew, had helped build the road that led into the street, his great-grandfather had assisted in digging the well.
Paisleys had built this town, and he wasn’t going to allow just anyone to come here and disrupt the way of life.
But for some reason, Ditty did not look disquieted. In fact, her face remained motionless.
The silence elongated, increasing the tension in the room. Henry swallowed. Why didn’t she say something?
When she eventually did, his shoulders sagged with relief.
‘I’m sorry, I’m waiting for the rest of your speech.’
Henry stared. His speech?
‘I think I should be getting back to the office anyway,’ came Charles’s voice from a long way off. ‘It’s busy as I said the other day. Henry, why don’t you come with me and—’
‘Speech?’ repeated Henry, ignoring his brother. ‘You think I need to justify myself further?’
‘I think manufacturing romance is not a crime,’ said Miss Oliver sweetly.
Henry tried not to notice the dimple that appeared in her left cheek as she smiled. It was most disconcerting to feel a rush of attraction to someone who was so entirely and utterly at odds with him.
‘I didn’t say it was a crime,’ he said aloud, trying to inject more forcefulness into his voice. ‘But there are plenty of things that aren’t crimes that I don’t agree with, and charging people for the simple practicality of proposing—’
‘Oh, there is nothing simple about my proposals,’ Miss Oliver cut across him with a glance at his brother.
Henry bristled. Of course there wasn’t. She had to prove her worth, didn’t she? Justify why she was going to charge her brother a small fortune for the pleasure of—
‘Really?’ As he had expected, Charles’s ears had pricked up. ‘Nothing simple?’
‘Oh, no, there are many wonderful details I can add to your proposal, weave in from the very beginning,’ Ditty said, turning away from Henry and beaming at his brother.
‘It’s not about…’ Henry began.
‘For example, for one gentleman whose lady had a history of dog breeding, I was able to gather over four hundred of her favourite breed into Hyde Park as he proposed,’ effused Miss Oliver, her eyes shining.
‘And for another, I lined the entire street where they lived with lanterns, each with a note about—’
‘I’m not saying you can’t plan an event!’ Henry snapped.
This was getting out of hand. Charles’s eyes had lit up and Henry could see, with a sinking feeling, that his brother was going to spend more money than he could spare on this ridiculous charade.
It was one question! One day! How hard could it be?
A discomforting pain in his stomach reminded him of the day he had promised himself he would never think of again.
How hard could it be? Oh, he knew all too well.
‘—and roses,’ Charles was saying. ‘All over the place—’
‘Do you have any musicians living in the town?’ asked Miss Oliver eagerly. ‘Professional preferably, but I believe many rural players are quite suffic—’
Henry barked a dry laugh as he leaned back in his chair. ‘Rural? We’re not just a tourist attraction for city dwellers, you know.’
‘We host the Valentine’s Day Festival every year,’ his brother pointedly out calmly.
Henry glared. That wasn’t the point! Couldn’t he see that?
Both his brother and the irritating proposal planner roundly ignored him.
‘There’s a beautiful place, just outside the town,’ Charles was saying. ‘Really beautiful.’
‘Well, that could be the perfect place,’ said Ditty, eyes wide. ‘Where is it?’
‘It can only be found along a woodland trail, and—’
‘No.’
Henry had not realised how stern, how loud his voice would be as he said the word.
But he could not help it. Pain was roaring in his ears, a rush like pouring water, and he blinked away stars at the corners of his eyes.
Not there. Anywhere, but there. He had never given his family any of the details, just what Georgiana’s response had been.
But he could not bear it if he had to hear the story of how his brother proposed—successfully—to Miss Yorke in the place where he had unsuccessfully offered marriage to a woman he had truly cared for. A woman who had broken his heart.
Not that Charles knew that particular heartbreak had occurred along the woodland trail, of course.
His brother blinked. ‘Why on earth not?’
‘Just, not there, please?’ Henry managed. ‘Anywhere else. You’re just manufacturing romance!’ he burst out, unable to hold it in any longer. ‘And you can’t! Romance is—it’s so much more than dressing up a restaurant or buying a hundred red roses, or, or finding a thousand dogs—’
‘Not quite a thousand, about four hundred,’ Miss Oliver said succinctly with a wry smile. ‘Though it was difficult. Her preferred dog is a very delicate breed—’
‘I don’t need to be told about dogs, I’m saying you can’t just produce romance out of a box! You can’t do it on command!’
To his horror, Henry found his breathing was ragged.
How did she do it? This woman, who had swanned into town only yesterday, brought a rise out of him that no one else did.
He could feel the prickles of irritation growing across his chest, flaring to his fingers and toes.
How could she look so calm, as though he was a toddler, throwing a tantrum?
The proposal planner stared curiously. ‘Really? I beg to differ. I have successfully planned one hundred and eight—no, my apologies—nine proposals, matching the individuals and guiding the gentleman to the altar. Every single one of the proposals, perfect. Every single one of them leading to an engagement.’
Charles threw out a hand. ‘There you go!’
Henry glared. ‘I’m not saying you don’t get results,’ he said stiffly.
‘Then what are you saying?’ asked Miss Oliver.
He swallowed. What was he saying?
There was so much hurt in his heart, hurt he had locked away and promised himself never to unlock. Hurt she wouldn’t understand.
How could she? Ditty Oliver spent all her time around people who were madly in love, Henry thought bitterly. People who were about to commit to the rest of their lives together.
Or did they…
‘Maybe you don’t get the results that are right,’ he said darkly. ‘Maybe the women feel pressured to say yes after such spectacular proposals, after it is obvious that so much money has been spent.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Henry saw his brother’s jaw drop.
‘Maybe they feel obliged to accept and then regret it later. Maybe it’s a decision made under pressure, not from affection,’ Henry said quietly, his gaze flicking to Miss Oliver’s face. She looked frozen. ‘I mean, how many weddings were you invited to?’
She swallowed.
Was he the sort of man to tear down another person? Why did this woman draw out of him such deep anger?
‘I would not expect wedding invitations to all of my proposals. That would be ridiculous,’ Miss Oliver said, strength rallying in her voice. ‘My clients are fashionable, wealthy individuals, I cannot expect them to make room for—’
‘If they are wealthy, an additional seat at a table wouldn’t cost too much,’ Henry said, pursuing this line doggedly. ‘You and your guest, I suppose. Gentleman caller. Fiancé. So how many?’ he persisted.
‘Henry, you can’t ask her—’
‘Not 109,’ Miss Oliver said, speaking over Charles and not taking her gaze from Henry’s. ‘But—’
‘So what you are saying is,’ said Henry, hardly knowing why he was pushing this, ‘though you have an excellent track record of getting women to agree to marry your clients…they don’t always actually marry them.’
The words hung in the air like bullets, but he could not take them back.
And he wouldn’t. It was time, he was certain, for Miss Aphrodite Oliver to be taken down a peg or two.
So why did he feel such a heavy weight of guilt as he saw her bite her lip and glance nervously at his brother?
‘I make no promises, no guarantees,’ Miss Oliver said finally.
‘She did say that,’ Charles pointed out fairly.
Henry frowned. Did the man not see he was being entirely taken in?
‘I promise romance—manufactured romance, perhaps, but romance nonetheless,’ she continued in a soft voice. ‘It’s not my job to make the relationship perfect. Only the proposal.’
Henry swallowed. There was something so…so intimate about the way she spoke.
Which made no sense. There was no intimacy between them, no affection. He wasn’t even sure if he liked her.
He was certain she did not like him.
‘Perfect proposal,’ he sniffed. ‘It cannot be done.’
A wide smile crept across Miss Oliver’s face. ‘Watch me.’