Chapter Twelve
When Ditty woke up for the second morning in a row with a slow and slightly confused smile on her face, she knew precisely why.
Henry.
The way he had kissed her had been hungry and all-consuming, and for a moment she had been willing to give herself up to it.
But then…
She would not lose herself to love, to any great emotion. That was how one became completely lost.
That was why she’d told Henry it was a mistake. Yet, now she winced at the memory, the look on his face. And had it really been a mistake?
Curled up under the coverlet in Mrs Fletcher’s best room, Ditty knew she was getting distracted. But who could blame her?
Henry Paisley, Duke of Glanyrafon, was an excellent distraction.
And besides, she tried to reason with herself in the quiet of the early morning, her friendship, or whatever it was with Henry, had become the solution to her biggest problem.
Ditty smiled, hugging the spare pillow as she remembered that moment. She had been filled with warmth, a sense of knowing, a sense of being known. A sense of belonging. A need to stay with him.
Those feelings had transmuted when he had kissed her. He had kissed her with passion and with purpose and with a clear sense of what he wanted.
Her.
She had never allowed herself to feel so wanted. Never put herself in a position to let her emotions overtake her. That was what had made her pull back.
Those feelings had not faded after she had returned to the inn, and Ditty had spent an evening trying to untangle precisely what it was she felt for this man. The doctor. The duke. The gentleman who had made her first few days here so difficult.
But now…
‘You are not falling in love,’ Ditty whispered in the quiet of the room. ‘You’ve got a job to do, a match to make! Remember?’
Stretching out an arm into the chilly air, she reached for the stack of letters that had been waiting for her last evening, her eyes too tired to read.
A note from Calliope, who demanded an update—adding that if she and Thalia did not start hearing from her more often, they were both going to jump on the next stagecoach to Brexley.
That made Ditty smile. It was so wonderful to know, even though they were miles away, she had her sisters worrying about her.
And there was a letter from Thalia—with something else inside it. Her eyes roved over the short missive.
Ditty—
I did not know what to do, and so I hope you can forgive me when I send on this letter. I thought you would wish to read it immediately, rather than wait until you return to London. If I am in error, I do apologise.
Your loving sister (please don’t be angry),
Thalia
Ditty blinked. It was a rather worried tone from her sister. Her gaze moved to the enclosed thing—a letter from Thomas.
She sat up so quickly that the coverlet fell and she had to pull it up to keep warm.
Thomas? What on earth was he writing to her about? From the little she could remember of the cold relationship cessation notice he had sent her just before she had come to Brexley, he had not wished to have anything more to do with her.
So why was he sending her a letter?
With a certain amount of trepidation, but more than a little curiosity, Ditty opened it.
Dear Ditty,
It’s strange not to have heard from you in such a long time. Weeks, I think.
As it turns out, I grew so accustomed to having you I hardly realised what it would be to do without you.
I went by your lodgings and saw your sisters who aren’t overly impressed with me anymore, for some reason. They said you’d left London for a matchmaking client. It’s not over, then? You’ve managed to salvage your reputation enough to secure a client?
Some of the things in the newspapers… I will be honest, at first I was glad I was no longer courting you. It would have been embarrassing at the bank to be tied to someone in the newspapers—and in such a manner.
But I can see now how they were wrong. I think on reflection, I was wrong, too.
With that in mind, I am contacting you with a proposal.
Ditty gasped. The letter slipped from her hand and for a few heart-stopping moments, it got tangled into the bed sheets.
When she had finally managed to find it again, it had folded itself. Ditty hesitated a moment, trying to catch her breath before she opened it again.
She couldn’t have read that right. Could she?
There was absolutely no possibility that Thomas was going to propose. Propose? Thomas?
Still, Ditty pondered, if he was going to do something like that, a letter would be just the way he would do it. Clean, calm, clinical. No ability to misunderstand his intentions. A firm yes or no in response.
Just like Thomas. Just like their relationship had always been.
Which did not explain why her heart was hammering so fast…yet she felt no excitement, no joy, no relief. In all honesty, Ditty couldn’t remember the last time she had thought about him.
Taking a deep breath, she unfolded the letter and kept reading.
With that in mind, I am contacting you with a proposal. I suggest we resume our previous courtship, with the following caveats:
1. We wait to see what the newspapers say about you and your career before announcing this to our friends/relations, etc
2. We will meet no more and no less than once a week (I have a place in my schedule already marked out)
3. During these meetings
Ditty put the letter down.
She should be happy. She knew she should; it was a return to the plan, a step back into the schedule she had arranged months ago, all to guard her heart.
But none of that sparked any excitement, any joy, in her.
When had that changed? When had her mind meandered away from rules, regulations, a safe and content future with Thomas…to the spontaneity, the surprises, the unsettling sensations in her stomach whenever she was with Henry?
She didn’t need to read any more. She might not want to dive headfirst into the feelings that Henry invoked, but her heart had already told her what she thought of Thomas’s suggestion, and it just wasn’t interested.
Ditty had been momentarily upset on receiving the relationship cessation notice, and it was galling to have him reach out like this, as though he was doing her a favour…
But in a way, he was.
Ditty looked around the room she was in. This room had everything in it she would associate with romance. Love hearts, the colour pink, cupids, bows, flowers…
I want more.
It felt strange thinking that, but Ditty knew it was the truth. More than what Thomas had to offer her.
Oh, he would be the perfect husband for someone, she had no doubt. But he was not for her. She wanted the fluttery feelings in her heart she felt whenever she looked at Henry Paisley, Duke of Glanyrafon.
Admitting that to herself felt strange after all this time. It wasn’t safe in the slightest. It wasn’t that she was imaging that Henry might be the perfect husband, but she did know he was showing her there was more out there, more to feel. If she gave herself permission to.
‘The only trouble, of course,’ Ditty muttered with a sigh, ‘is you’re leaving in just over a week.’
Eight days. Eight more days in Brexley, that was all she had.
A knock on her door made her jump. ‘Yes?’
‘Breakfast is ready, dear,’ came Mrs Fletcher’s voice through the door. ‘And a man called to say the fireworks you ordered—’
Ditty scrambled out of bed, swiftly pulling on a shawl and almost stumbling to the door as she opened it. ‘They’re here?’
Mrs Fletcher’s eyebrow raised at the sight of her guest in her night things—but then, Ditty’s travel nightgown was so thick and woollen, there was no hint of impropriety.
‘Sadly not,’ she said. ‘The man said they’d be delivered here tonight, by special courier.’
Ditty sighed. That was all she needed—more things to go wrong. ‘You were absolutely sure he said—’
‘I took down the message here, dear, I thought you’d want it written down. He wouldn’t stay, said he had other deliveries to make,’ said Mrs Fletcher cheerfully, handing her a piece of paper.
Ditty glanced at it. Mrs Fletcher was right; it was much better to have it in writing, though that didn’t change the fact the fireworks were now three days late. Another day wouldn’t matter, perhaps another two days, even three…
But after that?
‘In that case, I’ll take my breakfast with me, Mrs Fletcher,’ she said impulsively.
Her hostess’s other eyebrow rose. ‘With you?’
‘Yes, I think I’ll go for a walk on this beautiful morning,’ Ditty said.
‘My word. “With you.” Well, I’m not sure how I will manage the porridge, or the tea, or the eggs, or the—’
‘Toast will be absolutely fine,’ interrupted Ditty hastily, certain she was about to be treated to a monologue of all the different delicious breakfast items Mrs Fletcher’s inn could offer, and whether each of them could easily be transported. ‘Really. Toast.’
Not half an hour later, she was striding out of Mrs Fletcher’s and along King’s Street with a piece of toast cut into a heart.
It’s the look of the thing, dear, Mrs Fletcher had said fondly. You know how it is.
And it was delicious, Ditty thought as she munched happily, greeting the people of Brexley as she went. There were fewer and fewer faces she did not recognise now, and each time there was a look of recognition and a smile in someone’s eyes, that warm glow in her chest seemed to brighten.
She didn’t have a particular direction in mind. At least, that was what Ditty told herself. It was easier than admitting she had been intending to go to the Lodge all along.
When she arrived, there was a loud noise coming from the drawing room.
‘Morning,’ said Ditty easily. ‘What are they getting up to in there?’
‘The waltz,’ said Mavis, who was wandering through the hall. ‘I keep telling Henry it’s not good for them, at that age, but—’
Ditty opened the door, and the sight she beheld was quite astonishing. About twenty people, all in their seventies or above, were marching about in pairs as a woman who had to be at least ninety was playing a dainty waltz on a pianoforte.