Chapter Five
Ditty halted before the town library and glanced up at the rather elegant building.
Yes, it could work. The columns were impressive, not the sort of thing you would expect in a town this far out in the wilderness—well, not wilderness, precisely.
But she hadn’t seen a modiste in the two hours she had spent walking around the town, scouting out locations, and what was a town without a modiste?
She hadn’t seen a bookshop either. Where did these people get their books?
Ditty opened her notebook.
THE LIbrARY
She wrote the two words at the top of a fresh page, then started to write short points—the sort of things she would need to remember when she was in her room at Mrs Fletcher’s.
There were so many pretty little buildings everywhere, they were all starting to merge into one. Thank goodness this library looked so very different from the rest.
‘Ah, hello there!’
Ditty looked up, pencil hovering over her notebook as though she could not wait to return to her writing.
Which, in a way, she couldn’t. This was her job, after all, she thought severely. If she did not plan on doing extremely well for Mr Paisley—for Charles’s proposal, then she may as well kiss her reputation goodbye.
She’d be forced to take a job far more menial.
Matchmaking was the only thing which had ever brought her joy, the only employment she had ever considered when her father had died.
Goodness, it was pleasing: like moving chess pieces across a board.
When she was planning a proposal, all involved had to obey her commands.
The movement of it, like music, the order that she could bring to a person’s life…
and, of course, the funds she could earn.
A gentleman beamed as he inclined his head as he passed her—quite opposite to how a gentleman would notice a lady in London.
Ditty fought the instinct to glare and instead permitted it to happen.
There was nothing untoward about it, after all.
It was clear the residents of Brexley had a far warmer approach to strangers than in London.
All except one.
Perfect proposal. It cannot be done.
Ditty’s heart twisted painfully as the words of that most irritating man swam through her mind.
Worse, there must be many gentlemen and ladies who had read that odious newspaper article slandering her good name.
What was she supposed to do, permit that abhorrent son of a lord to pressure that poor vicar’s daughter to engage herself to him—when the previous two ladies who had accepted such overtures had been ruined then swiftly abandoned without a thought in the world?
And here she was in Brexley, her own reputation inexplicably under attack, with a man who was fighting against her. What on earth was she going to do with him?
Because do something, she must. She could not permit such a miserly gentleman to be the brother-in-law of her greatest triumph! She would have to win him around to the practicalities of romance before the twelfth—which was, what, seventeen days? Eighteen?
So, back to the library. It was rather like the one in her hometown—at least, what she could remember of it.
If her father hadn’t died, perhaps she would have stayed.
But there was nothing remaining for her in Almsbury and so she had left without a second glance.
She hadn’t even been back. What was there for her?
Standing here, on King’s Street, Brexley, it was in an odd way almost as though she were back there now. The same pattern of houses in the distance, becoming shops the closer you got to King’s Street. The same fountain at one end. In fact, in a strange way, it was almost like coming—
No, home was London, she told herself severely. She would finish this match, return to London, and hope to goodness her mother would leave Brighton and her spendthrift habits. Though of course there was far more opportunity for her mother to spend in the capital…
Ditty stood taller as she opened her notebook again and looked at the notes she had made on the town’s library.
Outstanding exterior—perfect for the day (is there a portrait artist in town?)
Useful location, right in centre of King’s Street (check distance to Cantelli Restaurant)
Must check interior
Well, it was an excellent start. Placing the notebook in her reticule, her fingers brushed up against a piece of paper in her pocket. Strange. She could not recall placing anything in there.
Ah. The letter from Thomas’s solicitor.
You are formally given notice of Mr Wright’s decision to terminate the romantic relationship between you.
And she wasn’t heartbroken. Perhaps she should be.
Ditty swallowed. But she wasn’t. She knew Thalia and Calliope expected her to be—expected her to be wailing and gnashing her teeth, probably.
But she wasn’t. She hadn’t thought about Thomas himself all day. A prickle of irritation over his letter had seared her heart as she had awoken, but that had been it.
So she had to assume she had not truly cared for him, not really. This wasn’t what heartbreak felt like, was it?
That was supposed to be…well. Hot and fiery and painful. While she had promised herself that she would never allow herself to be heartbroken again, certainly not by a romantic relationship, she assumed she would feel something akin to upset.
In truth, all Ditty felt knowing she didn’t have to go for another mindless walk with Thomas on her return to London…was relief.
Still, it did not make sense. As quickly as Ditty attempted to parse through the feelings which did not correlate with the emotions she was almost certain she should feel…there was no true sadness.
Had she ever cared for him, then? And why did the sensations roaring through her whenever she was in close proximity with her client’s brother simply not compare?
‘I am not heartbroken,’ she said aloud.
Perhaps leaving London and the busyness of the Season and the ton was the best thing she could have done.
‘In many ways, it’s like going back to Almsbury,’ Ditty muttered to herself, pressing a hand against the library column. ‘Everyone knows each other, everyone cares for each other—’
‘And everyone is in everyone’s business,’ said a deep voice from behind her.
* * *
Henry didn’t know what made him do it.
It wasn’t even as though she had caught his eye, given him the excuse to approach her. No, Miss Aphrodite Oliver had been speaking to herself, facing away from him.
She hadn’t spotted him. At least, Henry did not think she had seen him. It was hard to tell under that large bonnet, scarf and thick pelisse.
Despite knowing it was not a good idea, Henry had found himself approaching her.
Foolishness!
Yet he could not help it. The thought of surprising her gave him such a feeling of intense joy that he had felt drawn to her, unable to stop himself approaching.
After all, he hadn’t exactly been polite at their last meeting, had he? He probably owed it to her to say something nice and polite now.
Miss Oliver whirled round, cheeks burning, and Henry almost laughed as her jaw fell. ‘I— What?’ she said, evidently flustered.
Something deep within him stirred, but Henry pushed it aside immediately. He hadn’t thought this far ahead in his mischief.
His boots were rooted to the spot as though he had frozen there, the light dusting of snow underneath his feet suddenly ice, preventing him from moving.
Miss Oliver’s wide eyes looked up at him. Then she seemed to find her confidence. ‘You are just an ill-tempered gentleman who met me at the staging post, criticised me and my job, then tried to make me look bad in front of my client.’
Discomfort rose. When put like that, he didn’t come out too well.
Henry’s heart skipped a painful beat as Miss Oliver thrust what appeared to be a letter into her reticule. One from the gentleman who was courting her back in London, no doubt.
Not that he cared.
‘Well?’ Miss Oliver demanded. ‘Do townsfolk in Brexley often attempt to listen in on a person’s private musings?’
‘Only ones made by people trying to fleece my brother,’ Henry quipped.
The words had left his mouth before he thought, but it was true. This woman had flounced in here, would undoubtedly charge Charles London prices and would not even—
‘A man like your brother has the wealth to do what he likes,’ Miss Oliver said sharpy. ‘Why, anyone else would think you were jealous.’
Henry swallowed. How did she do that? Say things that went right to the heart?
Because he was. In a way.
Not the way she thought, he told himself bitterly.
No, she would assume he envied his brother’s money, his impressive legal practice.
And he supposed some brothers might think that way.
They might even complain that inheriting a duchy without a matching income was more a millstone around a man’s neck than anything else.
Certainly, Charles had never made any mutters about wishing it had been himself who had been the heir to their long-lost great-uncle.
But it wasn’t that which Henry envied. Oh, no.
There was something so wonderful and yet so galling about one’s brother being so…so happy.
‘I thought as much,’ said Miss Oliver smugly, entirely misunderstanding his silence. ‘Well, I suppose that’s the trouble with brothers. You are part of his law firm, right? Junior to him, forced to take orders?’
‘Wrong,’ said Henry, repressing a smile.
How very wrong she was.
‘Oh.’ She looked genuinely surprised. ‘I just assumed—because it’s the Paisley Brothers—’
‘Our two uncles, my father’s brothers,’ said Henry. And wondered precisely when would be the best time to reveal he’d inherited a duchy? Was it ever? ‘My own brother took on the place, he was the one with the instinct for the law.’
‘Oh.’
Silence fell between them. Henry knew he should walk away—there was no reason to stay here, no reason at all.
No reason except that he didn’t seem to know how to walk away.
Or want to.
‘So…so you’re not a lawyer, then?’