Finding Miss McFarland Page 3

  So much for his idea of clearing his head during a pleasant, quiet walk. Tattersalls would have to wait as well. At least at this hour, his sisters were the only terrors he was likely to encounter.

  The instant Delaney saw Griffin Croft turn onto the path ahead of her, she stopped cold.

  Buckley, she scolded silently, you assured me he would be at Tattersalls!

  She wasn’t prepared to see Mr. Croft so soon. This was her first glimpse of him in months, since last Season. Not that she gave him much thought.

  “Why have you stopped?” Bree asked with an exasperated huff. Even frowning did not detract from her ever-annoying beauty. “If you’ll recall, this walk was your idea, not mine.”

  “I think we’ve gone far enough for today.”

  Fortunately, Bree had turned just enough not to notice the gentleman approaching, along with those who were most likely his sisters. Equally as fortunate, the man himself had his head turned in conversation and therefore had not seen Delaney. At least, not yet.

  She hadn’t a moment to lose.

  Bree huffed again, as if it took every ounce of strength simply to stand upright. “I’d much rather return home and perhaps drop by the sweet shop for a peppermint stick.”

  “You’d waste your pin money on sweets?” Delaney always looked for a way to turn her money into something of value. Of purpose. When it came to store credit, however, she had no trouble spending her father’s money. Because, when she spent enough of it, he would call her into his study, demanding to know what items she’d bought. This was the only time he listened to her. The only time she had the chance to discuss the importance of a proper wardrobe. And if the argument didn’t escalate to window-shattering proportions, she might even have the opportunity to talk to him about the children of Warthall Place and Mr. Harrison’s mission. She hoped her tenacity would wear him down eventually. After all, she had convinced him to hire Buckley.

  “Not my money,” Bree answered with a smirk. “I was hoping you’d waste yours, since your allowance is far greater.”

  “Fine,” she agreed, but only because they must hurry. Delaney most definitely could not be seen with Mr. Croft.

  Prepared to head back the way they’d come, they turned on the path. Yet in the same instant, a sudden gust of wind whipped around the tree line. Delaney’s bonnet went flying. With a startled exclamation, she reached for it but was too late. Caught by another gust, it rolled away. Ribbons flailing, it continued down the path like a spinning top on a slanted table.

  “Your hat!” Bree began to turn, but Delaney grabbed her arm.

  “No. Leave it. I . . . I’ll get a new one. We’ll stop by the milliner’s on the way. And I saw a lovely shade of cerise ribbon at Haversham’s the other day. Perhaps . . .” Her maniacal ramblings were to no avail.

  Bree turned on the path anyway. “Oh, look it’s Mr. . . .” Awareness dawned on a gasp. “Oh, dear.”

  “Precisely,” Delaney whispered. Now, it was no use. They’d been spotted. First, her bonnet had betrayed her, and then her sister. She expected it of the latter, but not so much the former. It was a heavy blow.

  “Miss Pursglove is forever warning you about tying your ribbons,” Bree admonished.

  Delaney gritted her teeth. “Which is precisely why I never do.”

  Appalled, she watched her bonnet finally stop directly—of all places—at Mr. Croft’s feet. She looked up to the heavens and prayed for a sudden deluge or something that would make fleeing the scene a necessity. Unfortunately, the sky was uncommonly clear and bright. More’s the pity.

  At least when he stood erect, she was rewarded with his look of utter dread upon seeing the owner of the bonnet, now in his grasp.

  Oh, yes. Hullo. You might not remember me, but I’m the young woman who cast up her accounts and her dignity all over your shoes on the night we met.

  And just like that night, all she could do was stand there and gape in horror.

  “It’s like the story of Mother’s fan,” she heard one of the girls say as they approached.

  Whatever it meant, the alarm in Mr. Croft’s expression took on a new dimension. His steps slowed as if he were approaching the gallows. She, on the other hand, would rather hurry him along. Best to get this over with sooner rather than later.

  She took a step and then two, her chest feeling suddenly tight, her heart close to bursting under the pressure. “Thank you, Mr. Croft,” she said when they were at a close enough distance for conversation. “You didn’t have to go out of your way for my bonnet.” Anyone else’s but mine.

  “Oh, but he did,” the youngest of his sisters said, answering for him. “Mother named us all with purpose. Griffin is a guardian and protector. I’m certain that applies to stray bonnets.”

  Caught off guard by the exuberance of the girl wearing a crown of flower blossoms, Delaney smiled. “Is that so?”

  The girl stepped forward, a gleam of familial pride in her eyes as she gestured to each of her sisters. “The one holding the book is the oldest of us girls. Mother says her first cry was so beautiful that she named her Calliope.”

  Mr. Croft cleared his throat and settled a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Miss McFarland, you must forgive my manners. Please allow me to introduce my sisters.”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” she cut in the instant she saw his youngest sister’s smile fade. Delaney had a soft spot for children who didn’t always follow the strict rules of society. “This amiable girl was doing a splendid job. She’s quite the skilled orator.”

  The youngest beamed and lifted her face to her brother. Delaney didn’t catch his gaze before he bent his head forward in a slight bow of concession, yet she distinctly noted the way one corner of his mouth drew tight in something of a smirk. “Then, by all means . . .” he said.

  His sister gestured to the other two. Except for the color of their eyes, they would have been identical. “Then, because Phoebe,” she said as she gestured to the one with the brown, “and Asteria,” she said, gesturing to the one with the blue, “turned her into a giantess, Mother named them after Titans.”

  Phoebe and Asteria wore a similar expression of exasperation that told Delaney they were likely the same age as Bree, but affection for their sister was there as well.

  Delaney smiled at them and then glanced to Mr. Croft in a moment of commiseration. He certainly had his hands full. When their eyes met, however, she felt a terrible constriction of her lungs.

  Abruptly, Delaney returned her gaze to the youngest. “And what about your name?”

  “Because I was born in autumn with the harvest, she named me Tess.” She shrugged, apparently unimpressed with her own story.

  “I think Tess is a beautiful name,” Delaney said and went on to explain that Bree’s name meant exalted one, and made a face for amusement’s sake. “I was named after both my parents, but I go by my middle name, which is my mother’s maiden name. Nothing at all interesting, like your family names.”

  Tess brightened again. “Do you know what it means?”

  “I do,” Bree said, only too eager to interject. “Delaney means challenging.”

  That earned a giggle or two. Delaney didn’t mind. Talking to Mr. Croft’s sisters kept her mind off of the fact that she was standing in close proximity to him, knowing he must be remembering the last time. How could he not? Another mark in his sisters’ favor was the fact that not a single one of them backed away as if they thought she might spontaneously combust, the way most of the ton did, aside from her closest friends.

  Mr. Croft stepped forward and held out her bonnet. His look of horror had altered to one of mild amusement and perhaps a touch of surprise. Like her, he probably hadn’t expected their second official meeting to be less of a disaster than the first. “Your hat, Miss McFarland.”

  Her gloved hand closed over the brim, and suddenly she felt that odd crackling sensation again. She hadn’t felt it in nearly a year. She’d even convinced herself that she’d imagined it. Yet here i
t was again, these hot little pinpricks of sensation skittering beneath the surface of her skin.

  She still couldn’t tell if his eyes were brown or blue, as they were shaded beneath the brim of his John Bull. Yet, quite strangely, she felt desperate to know.

  “You have my eternal gratitude, Mr. Croft,” she said, meaning it as a lark. Instead, the words came out breathless because her mouth and throat had gone suddenly dry. She licked her lips and then felt the crackling burn hotter as his gaze caught the insignificant action. Although for reasons she couldn’t fathom, it seemed significant now.

  He released her bonnet and took a step back, his brow furrowed. “A moment’s gratitude is more acceptable for such an easy task,” he corrected.

  Of all the arrogance, Delaney’s inner voice growled, sparking a flame of a different sort. Regardless, she was determined to end this encounter better than the last. She pasted on a smile. “Perhaps. Though someone less skilled in bonnet rescue might not have returned it unmangled.”

  A slow grin lifted one corner of Mr. Croft’s mouth, as if he found her amusing. Her eyes narrowed.

  Then, one of the twins nudged him, drawing his attention. It drew Delaney’s, as well—but only because she needed the distraction. A look passed between brother and sister as if something important had just happened. Delaney couldn’t begin to guess what it was.

  That same mystery gleamed in Phoebe’s brown eyes. “Our debut party is in three days. Do you think Mother could add Bree to the invitation list?”

  “And, of course, Miss McFarland should attend as well,” Asteria added, her grin spreading by the moment.

  No. Absolutely not. Attending a gathering at the Crofts’ home would only resurrect last year’s incident—which would surely hinder her chances of finding a husband.

  Delaney had a plan in place for her future. She couldn’t risk drawing too much attention, or it would fall apart. For now, she had to do everything she could to avoid Mr. Croft and further disaster. And that included keeping Bree from entangling both of them with the Crofts.

  “Actually,” Delaney began, prepared to make a polite refusal. “I’m afraid—”

  “Oh yes, that would be splendid,” Bree answered before Delaney or Mr. Croft or anyone with any sense could stop her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The following morning, Delaney waited anxiously for Hershwell to bring the Post into the breakfast room. She had to know if the luckless meeting with Mr. Croft in the park was on everyone’s lips.

  As she paced the floor, the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked buns drew her to the buffet. They looked delicious, all golden and glazed with icing. Her stomach growled, but she didn’t dare eat a thing until she knew—

  “Miss Danvers and Lord Rathburn are engaged!” Bree announced, rushing in and flapping the paper at her. “And you never said a word.”

  “Engaged?” Delaney blinked, nonplussed. Emma hadn’t said anything about being engaged earlier that week at their needlework circle.

  Bree drew in a quick breath and grinned from ear to ear. “You didn’t know.”

  Delaney wanted to deny it—oh, how she wanted to—but instead, she kept quiet and reached for the paper.

  The devil’s spawn—or Bree McFarland, to the rest of the world—quickly hid the Post behind her back. “It serves you right. After all, you never said a word about Penelope Weatherstone’s condition. I had to find out from our cousin, Elena, and she was only too happy to gloat over me.”

  “Since you are not part of our coterie”—Delaney stepped toward her and wondered if she could get away with paddling her sister with the serving spoon—“I had little reason to tell you of the upcoming birth of their child.”

  “Miss McFarland!” Miss Pursglove admonished from the doorway. “It is unseemly to speak of such things at breakfast or any other time.” Her sharp gaze closed in on the hand hovering over the silver service on the buffet.

  Begrudgingly, Delaney lowered her hand. “Are young women meant to pretend that their parents found them in baskets on the doorstep? Surely I am allowed to speak of such matters to my sister, who is old enough to be out in society.”

  “Your mother has that right, but you do not.”

  Delaney did her best to hold her temper in check and offered a stiff nod. She’d made a promise to her mother, after all.

  It had been more than a year ago since Mother had come into her room to say good-bye.

  “Take care of your sister while I’m away,” her mother said after a short embrace. She withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed the tears from the corners of her eyes. All the while, Bree’s sobs echoed down the hall. “She’s too much like me, I fear, and prone to heartbreak.”

  Somehow, Delaney had managed to conceal her own sadness and disappointment. She’d already known that her mother wouldn’t return before her debut. The arguments she’d overheard between her parents had been her first clue.

  “You are stronger than she is,” her mother continued, reaching out to brush the backs of her fingers across Delaney’s cheek. “The way you handle yourself around your father and that horrid woman he hired makes me see how much you’ve grown these past few years. You, my dear girl, are ready to make a match, because I know you are too clear-sighted to fall prey to my weakness of the heart.”

  In other words, Delaney knew better than to believe a man would want her for any reason aside from her fortune.

  Stark reality drew her out of the memory. Unlike her mother, Delaney was determined to set the course for her own life.

  Now, with Bree distracted and likely wondering if her lapse in decorum would earn a reprimand, the paper went slack in her hand. Delaney snatched it, unconcerned by the reproachful tsk from Miss Pursglove.

  Immediately, she sought the society column. As her gaze skimmed over the latest news, she let out a sigh of relief. No mention of Mr. C—or Miss M—in the park. The way Emma and Rathburn’s engagement announcement appeared, it was no wonder. It looked, for all the world, as if the Dowager Duchess of Heathcoat had designed the match herself. If ever there was news, this was it.

  She cast a longing glance at the iced buns and sighed. First things first; she must assemble her friends to uncover the mystery of Emma’s sudden betrothal.

  And straightaway after that, she absolutely must decline the Crofts’ invitation. It was a matter of dire importance. Her future was at stake.

  Griffin caught a whiff of gingerbread and smiled. Their cook, Mrs. Shortingham, knew it was his favorite. Glad that she’d remembered his birthday, he descended the servants’ stairs to the kitchen. By the time he arrived, however, one of the sculleries told him that the very last of the gingerbread had been sent to his mother’s parlor.

  The last of it sent to the parlor on his birthday? He didn’t believe it for an instant. It must be a ruse. No doubt, his sisters and mother were preparing to jump out at him shouting a boisterous “Happy birthday!”

  Normally, he detested surprises, but as long as gingerbread awaited him, he could endure anything.

  Wasting no time, he went to the parlor. But when he opened the door, he found another surprise altogether. Miss McFarland stood on the edge of the carpet.

  Something inside him jumped.

  Even though her back was to him, there was no mistaking that auburn hair. While her attire was likely the first star of fashion and perfectly in order, her hair was a different matter altogether. As it had been when their paths had crossed in the park, she wore it tied into a chaotic sort of queue that went midway down her back. The ends of a fat periwinkle ribbon knotted with the curls. Absently, he wondered if she would brush out the tangles as soon as she returned home or if she would wait until the end of the evening when she was in bed . . .

  The errant thought startled him. The last thing he expected to imagine was the infamous Miss McFarland in such an intimate setting. She wasn’t the sort that typically incited a man’s lust. A man wanted curves he could mold with his hands and a mouth he could plund
er. As he’d noted yesterday, Miss McFarland possessed a rather small bosom and mouth. Small and yet . . . captivating.

  Gradually, the strands of the conversation he’d walked in on drew his attention, providing him momentary relief.

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate meeting with you today and beg forgiveness for dropping by unannounced,” the tousled Miss McFarland said, shaking his mother’s hand. “I simply felt it was a matter of urgency and wanted to explain in person.”

  This piqued his interest. What pressing matter could have brought her here, of all places?

  “Of course, dear.” His mother patted her hand, not once revealing his presence in the doorway. “But as I said, I think that event has long been forgotten.”

  Ah. Now he understood.

  “You are too kind. After coming here today to decline an invitation, I feel as if I don’t deserve the warm welcome you’ve given me. Even though an hour has passed, it seemed mere minutes to me,” Miss McFarland offered graciously. “Not to mention, I don’t think I’ve ever been in a more cheerful parlor. The colors you’ve chosen are so inviting that I find it difficult to take my leave.”

  “With such praise, I might have to insist you stay until supper,” his mother said with a laugh.

  This exchange brought to mind the list his sisters had mentioned yesterday, of all the ways a young woman invites a man’s attention. Something to do with remarking on the mother’s sense of style to earn an invitation. Then, there was also the compliment she’d given him about his skillful bonnet rescue. He stared, baffled. Did Miss McFarland have marital designs on him? No. It couldn’t be true.

  “Thank you again for the fine cake,” Miss McFarland said. “It was the most delicious confection I’ve ever had. I do hope your cook will share the recipe with mine someday soon.”

  “I’ll ask Mrs. Shortingham to send it this afternoon.” His mother beamed. “It’s Griffin’s favorite as well.”

  Distracted, only now did he notice the empty platter and the dark crumbs on the six plates scattered on tables about the room. Apparently, gingerbread was a favorite of his sisters too. Was that truly was the last of it? On his birthday? His stomach grumbled in protest.