Chapter Eight
‘Yes, just under two weeks to go now,’ Ditty said with a laugh. ‘And you know, I thought I would be able to keep it secret from you!’
Reg chuckled. The Cantelli Restaurant had been closed, only for an hour, while the two of them ran through the menu Ditty had selected for the big day.
Charles Paisley’s proposal.
‘Ah, a common misconception about small towns,’ said Reg grandly, but then he added with a wink, ‘Well, not entirely a misconception. Gossip does run about Brexley like nobody’s business.’
‘Yes, so I heard,’ said Ditty, giggling.
It had been a wonderful lunch. Reg had absolutely outdone himself: the risotto, the gnocchi, the prosciutto… It was going to be difficult to choose a menu at this rate. Every dish was sublime.
But it wasn’t just the food. No, it was the whole atmosphere. Though she might have called the place rural just a few weeks ago, here in Brexley…it just worked.
‘Miss Vivienne has some real beauties in at the moment, doesn’t she?’ Ditty said, gesturing at the beautiful flowers on every table.
Reg nodded. ‘Oh, she only ever sends me the best—roses, of course. Nothing more romantic than roses.’
Ditty smiled, but did not contradict the older man. There was no point getting into that disagreement.
‘So, are you going to select the peach or the frangipane parfait?’
Ditty sighed as she looked at the two elegant glass bowls before her. ‘You know, I still can’t choose.’
‘Few can,’ said Reg with a glint in his eye. ‘Better to have both, I’d say.’
She shot him a grin. ‘You strike a hard bargain.’
‘I make an excellent parfait.’ He corrected her with a chuckle. ‘Now, coffee. I know not everyone drinks coffee and many prefer tea, but—’
‘Miss Oliver?’
Ditty looked around. A man was standing in the doorway wearing the red of the postal service. In his hand was a letter. ‘I am Miss Oliver.’
‘Wonderful. Here y’are.’
A letter was pressed into her hand and in an instant, Ditty knew precisely who it was from. She would recognise that handwriting anywhere.
‘I do apologise,’ said Ditty, hastily ripping open the envelope. ‘Sorry, Reg, I’ve got to read this. Do you mind if—’
‘Say no more,’ said Reg magnanimously, rising from the table. ‘You read that, and then we’ll talk coffee!’
Ditty nodded with a smile as she unfolded the letter and breathed out a contented, ‘Finally!’
Dear Ditty,
I imagine this letter will take simply an age to find you! The man on the stagecoach had never heard of Brexley! Where on earth are you?
I suppose you have laughed with delight to have escaped London just before the Season, and well may you laugh. It’s miserable and grey here, and no matter where one looks, a most despicable newspaper is printing lies about you. Do not read a single one.
I have been completely rushed off my feet.
After promising myself that I would go to Brighton to visit Mama, I have found myself suddenly receiving a rush of commissions.
Three actual paid commissions! I have cancelled my plans for Brighton and I can already hear you lecturing me, young lady, about not putting our finances first and taking time to relax—but as you are Miss ‘Hurtle across the Country for a Client’ Oliver, please forgive me if I do not take your advice to heart.
Besides, in truth I shall earn but a few shillings after paint and canvas. The cost of paint, you have no idea!
If there are any handsome men, do let us know? I am desperate to paint someone who looks like he could have walked out of Ancient Egypt. Any ideas? Just don’t fall in love!
I remain ever, your most affectionate and impatient sister,
Calliope
Ditty swallowed. Her first thought was that, though she had never been forced to admit it aloud, Henry was handsome.
Her second thought was that she would absolutely never, under any circumstances, tell him that.
Her third thought was that her first thought should have been about her sisters.
Just don’t fall in love!
And at that precise moment, Henry Paisley, newly discovered Duke of Glanyrafon, walked into the restaurant.
Avoiding his displeasure had been difficult, and now avoiding him was downright impossible. The handsomest man she had been avoiding all week. The handsomest doctor. The handsomest duke…
It was a good thing Ditty wasn’t taking a bite of the parfait. She would undoubtedly have choked, her brain unable to believe he was here.
Reg approached the man and shook hands with him, handing a tall glass to the Duke and pointing in Ditty’s direction as her cheeks flushed with heat.
What was Reg doing?
Ditty stuffed the letter into her reticule and considered her options—but before she could conceive of an escape route—
‘Reg asked me to bring this over,’ said Henry with a wry smile. ‘And I thought my serving days were over.’
He placed the drink onto the table and stood there, waiting.
Ditty tried to smile. She really did. If only she could stop thinking about the teasing Mavis and Avril had given her after she had discovered, right in front of their eyes, that Henry was not just some man in the town, but a doctor…and the local duke.
A duke.
It shouldn’t make a difference, she knew. Ditty looked up into the dark eyes and welcoming expression of the man, and knew it did.
There was something about people in the medical field. Intelligent, but caring. They could go out and do anything with their brains, but they chose to do good. And that mattered.
There was also something about gentlemen with titles. Something honourable… Although her experience with Lord Edward had tested that theory.
Yet, try as she might, Ditty could not entirely divorce that fact from the handsome man before her. A duke. The Duke of Glanyrafon.
Why hadn’t he said anything? Told her he was titled.
‘May I sit down?’
Ditty swallowed. ‘Of course.’
It was not what she wanted to say, though precisely what she wanted to say, she did not know. She didn’t want to sit with him, that was certain…but his presence was hardly a punishment.
Henry slipped onto the chair and looked at her notebook sprawled out across the table. ‘Planning, then.’
Ditty nodded, but didn’t elaborate. For a reason she couldn’t entirely put her finger on yet, sharing her plans for Charles’s proposal with Henry would be…wrong.
‘You have served here, in your time?’ she said instead.
Henry gave her a lopsided grin. ‘I think everyone who grew up in Brexley worked here for a few shillings at some point. A great learning experience, I suppose, and Reg was an excellent boss. You got a solid meal for every four hours of your shift, and you could take leftovers home.’
Ditty groaned. ‘Goodness, you’d have to roll me out of this place. Here, save me from myself and eat…’
Her eyes flickered between the two glass bowls.
Henry’s laughter made her look up. ‘Struggling to decide between them?’
‘They are both so good,’ she agreed with a nervous smile. ‘Go on, you pick.’
‘Well, I’ll never say no to frangipane,’ Henry said, pulling the bowl toward him and taking a spoon from his pocket.
Ditty stared. Now, where had that come from?
‘Trust me,’ said Henry darkly. ‘You wait until Valentine’s Day.’
Ditty’s eyes widened. Now, what on earth did he mean by—
‘I just meant, there’s a baking competition here in Brexley on Valentine’s Day,’ Henry added quickly, undoubtedly seeing her expression. ‘No matter where I go, there are sweet treats to be eaten, and eventually it just makes more sense to carry a spoon with you. It’s a habit I’ve got into.’
He took a bite of the frangipane and closed his eyes in appreciation.
Ditty took that moment to examine him more closely. He was…different, somehow.
Oh, still the same Henry who had picked her up from the staging inn. The same Henry who had quibbled with her opinions in front of Charles.
But at the same time…she couldn’t describe it. A softness in him, perhaps. A kindness, a warmth.
Sometimes, when Ditty was not keeping an eye on herself, she was tempted to seek out the man and do something wild. And radical.
Like kiss the handsome Duke senseless, then get on with her day.
Molten mortification always cascaded through her at the very thought, but Ditty could not rid her mind of such wanderings. She would not be staying in Brexley, after all. Why not enjoy a passionate kiss—or five—with a man so handsome her toes actually curled whenever she was in his presence?
Which was nonsense. Why was she thinking such things? Surely her head had not been so easily turned by learning he was both a doctor and a duke?
‘You love sweet things, then?’ Henry asked, opening his eyes and nodding at the peach parfait.
Ditty nodded. ‘I love sweet things.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s why you became a proposal planner,’ Henry said with a smile.
For a moment, she hesitated. Was he just teasing her?
Apparently not. ‘Yes, I’ve always liked the sweet things. Biscuits, caramel. Proposals, big displays of affection, huge bejewelled—’
‘Don’t you think there’s more?’
* * *
Henry had no idea what had possessed him to say such a thing.
It was ridiculous. It was embarrassing.
It was…just the sort of thing Ditty would laugh at, he was sure.
Henry cringed, waiting for the laughter. But it never came. Instead, Ditty took a delicate mouthful of peach parfait, during which he tried desperately not to look at her mouth, and considered his statement.
‘More?’ she said finally. ‘I… I don’t think I know what you mean.’
Henry swallowed, and found his mouth was dry.
This wasn’t why he had stepped into Cantelli Restaurant. Reg had once said he knew a few good cheap, delicious recipes he could recommend to the cook at the Lodge. Though Henry had spent the Christmas period keeping to the traditional fare, he could no longer ignore what the ledgers were saying.
He would have to change the menu if he wanted them to keep eating.
But Reg had instead pointed him in the direction of his newest customer, and all thoughts had disappeared from his mind.