Finding Miss McFarland Read online

  “Isn’t that right, dear?” his mother asked, acknowledging him for the first time.

  “Mr. Croft!” Miss McFarland turned so swiftly that her skirts bumped into the low table, knocking over a blue vase of daffodils. Golden flowers shot out amidst a spray of water as the vase clattered against the serving fork, sending it on a path toward a bowl of frothy whipped cream. The bowl turned end over end, splattering cream along the way until it finally ended up facedown on the carpet.

  “Blast,” she cursed under her breath.

  For reasons beyond his understanding, he took unaccountable delight in startling Miss McFarland. Stranger still, he found himself beguiled and intrigued by her. As he knew from the moment they’d met, Delaney McFarland was a catastrophe waiting to happen. Why this pleased him today, when it certainly hadn’t before, he had no idea.

  He sprang into action and rounded the table just as Miss McFarland bent down. She was frantically putting the flowers back into the vase and even trying to capture the water as the apologies tumbled from her lips.

  “Mrs. Croft, I’m so sorry. How dreadful. After such a lovely hour—”

  “Don’t worry about it, dear. These things happen.” His mother bent to rub a hand over Delaney’s shoulder before she moved to the door. However, he knew that if any of his sisters had said blast within his mother’s hearing—which was any room in the house—she wouldn’t look nearly so cheerful. “I’ll see if I can find a damp cloth for the cream.”

  Griffin stared after his mother’s retreating figure, curious as to why she wouldn’t simply summon a maid as she’d done for the entirety of his life, especially since mishaps like this happened every day.

  When he lifted the bowl and saw a mound of cream on the carpet, he was at a loss for what to do. The best thing, he supposed, was to put the cream back into the bowl. He scooped up as much as he could with his hand, but it began to liquefy almost instantly.

  “Your hands must be too warm,” Miss McFarland said at the same time the thought occurred to him. “Perhaps the serving fork . . .”

  They reached for it at the same time, his hand on the tines and hers on the hilt. Their gazes collided, and the shock of it tore through him like a bolt of lightning striking the ground at his feet. He was suddenly quite aware of the hole left behind.

  He’d always thought Miss McFarland’s eyes were a darker shade of blue, but he’d been wrong. They were violet, dark and lush like the petals of the same flower. And her hair wasn’t what he’d supposed either. He thought it merely auburn, but now he saw that the wildly curling tendrils varied from a pale gold flame, to bright sunburst, to robust red, and then to dark, rich brown.

  “Your eyes are blue and brown, swirled together like . . . lake water,” she said, before her eyes widened with shock, as if only now realizing she’d spoken aloud. Abruptly, she released the fork and returned to arranging the flowers. He missed the contact immediately. “I thought they were either one or the other. I couldn’t tell from a distance.” Her tone was matter-of-fact now, and it made him grin. Perhaps she was just as shaken as he.

  “Lake water . . .” He couldn’t let it go, not when he saw the palest pink tinge her cheeks to the same hue of her lips. “That’s rather poetic. I suppose you’d compare my hair to a chestnut mane?”

  She was thoroughly engrossed in her task, plucking one flower from the front of the vase and placing into the center. “More like freshly turned earth, if you must know. The color is darker toward the roots with streaks of sun bleached brown at the tips.”

  Another jolt tore through him at the elemental undertone of her description. His mind conjured an image of fire cleansing freshly turned earth in preparation for planting—flames licking, like tendrils of hair caught in the wind; consuming, like eager, ravenous mouths; undulating, like bare limbs in the throes of ecstasy, while violet eyes stared up at him . . .

  Griffin was suddenly aware of a growing arousal.

  Just then, Tess bounded into the room and immediately rectified that situation. “Mother sent me to ask if you’d like Cook to bake another gingerbread . . . since it’s your birthday, after all. She also wanted to know if you’d like to invite a guest for supper this evening before the musicale. Oh, hullo, Delaney.”

  Miss McFarland offered a smile. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Tess. That yellow frock is quite becoming on you.” Then as his sister beamed and plucked at the ruffles on her skirt, Miss McFarland turned her focus on him, her violet gaze round with unease. “My errors in coming here seem to be increasing by the moment. We ate your special cake.”

  That she should worry he was now in want of gingerbread stirred a pleasant warmth within him. “Mrs. Shortingham will make another.”

  She pressed her lips together. “I made a mess of the parlor.”

  “Only the center,” he teased but found his gaze returning to her small pink mouth, as if oddly fascinated by the shape and color. Although as far as he could tell, there was nothing particularly remarkable in either. It simply captured his attention the way a candle flame might. “The corners are still quite tidy.”

  “Nevertheless, I’m certain that I’m the very last person you wanted to see today,” she said and straightened, smoothing down the front of her skirts. “Please accept my wishes for the merriest of birthdays.”

  He straightened as well, desiring to adjust the front of his cutaway and waistcoat but his hands were too sticky. “Would you like an invitation to supper this evening?”

  She shook her head so abruptly that some men might have taken offense. “And again, my unexpected presence has put you and your family in an awkward situation. For that, I’m truly sorry and for everything else as well.” She turned to Tess. “Please tell your mother that, while her invitation was most gracious, I have a previous engagement this evening.”

  His sister shrugged and turned, skipping down the hall to where their mother likely waited in the next room, listening to every word.

  “I don’t understand you, Miss McFarland,” he said, studying her with new interest. “Last Season, I was nearly convinced you went out of your way to ensure that we were never seen in the same place, to avoid association to the—”

  “The incident,” she supplied quickly. “That is the only delicate way to refer to what happened at my debut, Mr. Croft.”

  He grinned at the haughty way she addressed him, saying Mr. Croft as if accusing him of a wrongdoing or misbehavior. “Then, a year after the incident, I cannot go three steps without running into you. Why, you practically laid your bonnet at my feet yesterday, daring me to pick it up.”

  Her lips parted on a gasp, offering him a flash of her pink tongue. “I did no such thing. It was the wind and nothing—I repeat, nothing—more.”

  A bit of deviltry flared to life within him. Now, he wanted to hear her haughty address again. He wanted to goad her into those three syllables. “Yet you came here to spare my mother’s feelings and then stayed long enough to encourage her, praising her in a way that gave every indication of your interest in her son.”

  “Mr. Croft!”

  He felt her admonition cover him, tightening the flesh over his bones. He could feel heat radiate from each drop of blood in his veins, feel the length of each hair on his body. His follicles contracted—released—contracted with those three syllables out of her small pink mouth.

  Mis-ter Croft.

  Something flashed in her gaze, like a sudden spark to gunpowder. For an instant, the violet in her irises brightened to pale lavender. She drew in a breath before she continued, her voice low and calm. “You are mistaken, sir. While I mean this as no insult, either to your person or to your family, the plans for my future in no way involve you. Good day.”

  Even though she was quick to leave, he knew he could catch her if he wanted to. However, he still had damnably sticky cream on his hands, in addition to a strange bruising around his ego. He had little doubt she’d meant what she said about her future not involving him. Yet he hadn’t a clu
e why it bothered him.

  On the drive home, Delaney decided that she was going to kill Bree. It was her fault, after all—at least every iota of disaster she’d experienced in these past two days. If it hadn’t been for her sister, she never would have made such a fool of herself in front of Mr. Croft. Again.

  Of course, she had to cast some of the blame on him too. Everything had been fine until his sudden appearance in the doorway. Then, everything went completely, utterly wrong. The table, the flowers, the cream, the comment about his eyes . . . oh, why did her mouth run so often without the intervention of her brain?

  It wasn’t her fault. It was his, for making her uncharacteristically nervous. She was never nervous, or prone to fits of blushing, for that matter. Yet she’d distinctly felt a surge of heat rush to her cheeks. Blast it all!

  The conceited, arrogant, contemptible man had had more than his share of amusement at her expense too.

  The only thing that had not turned into a complete catastrophe was the simple fact that the entire ordeal hadn’t taken place in a public venue. Thankfully, with Emma’s recent engagement to Lord Rathburn in the Post, the ton had more interesting things to talk about—at least for now.

  How long could that last? Not long, she was sure.

  Delaney drew in a breath. During moments like this, she became more and more focused on her plan to marry by the end of the Season. All she needed was to find a gentleman who agreed to her terms. After all, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find someone who wanted her for her fortune and nothing more.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Dorset ball was a complete crush.

  After Delaney’s disastrous week, things were starting to look up. Naturally, to avoid another encounter with Mr. Croft, Delaney had not attended the Sumpters’ musicale. Even so, tonight her spirits were high. Part of the reason, no doubt, was because she knew he wouldn’t be here.

  From the gallery, Delaney spied at least two possible husbands, each of them more dissolute than the other. For the first time in nearly a year, she felt her chances for marrying within her grasp.

  Merribeth Wakefield joined her near the potted palms in the corner and looked over the railing as well, her face bathed in the glow from the chandeliers. “I cannot wait to see Emma dance with Lord Rathburn. They are a perfect match, though I find it odd that Emma isn’t at sixes and sevens with their wedding only weeks away. I would be coming unglued, I’m certain.”

  “You, unglued? Hardly. You’ve been planning your wedding for years.” Delaney playfully nudged her. “I am the one who would be forced to elope simply to keep my sanity. A blacksmith in Gretna Green is all I require. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to stand still for a church ceremony.”

  Merribeth laughed. “Then we must find your husband amongst one of the dancers. He shouldn’t be able to keep still either.”

  “Reginald Hargrove is one of those below,” Delaney mused, staring down at the top of his balding pate. “I’ve learned his estate is approaching ruin after his brother bankrupted them and fled the country.”

  “Hargrove is nearly as old as your father.” Her friend made a face that drew attention to the infamous tilt of her dark brows. “And as you said, he’s nearly a pauper. Why ever would you want to marry him?”

  “Who better than a man who requires a fortune when I am the possessor of one?” When her father nearly doubled her dowry after the incident, the indecent sum had made her a mockery. She’d even heard that the betting books at White’s speculated on what it would be next year.

  “Delaney, you are more than that dowry over your head,” Merribeth chastised softly and squeezed her hand. “You deserve a man who sees past your fortune.”

  No. That would never do. Even if such a man existed, she would not marry him. She’d never risk falling in love. After seeing how the lines between money and love had ruined her own parents’ marriage, she knew it was better to keep the two separate. That was the sole reason she’d come up with the plan to find a husband who needed her fortune, but one who’d gladly leave her to live her life in peace. Alone.

  “Not all of us possess your steadfast romantic notions,” Delaney said fondly. “Nevertheless, since Hargrove is a widower with two sons, he doesn’t require an heir. That makes him practically perfect.” Delaney would never have to see him past their wedding day. She could purchase a house and do whatever she wanted with her share of the fortune.

  “You don’t want children of your own?” Her friend looked as if she were seeing her for the first time.

  “It isn’t that important,” she said, hating herself for the small lie. Having children would require a true marriage. Intimacy. Love. From watching her own parents, she knew that money and love could not exist together. “Besides, I’m far too cynical to be a mother.”

  Merribeth squeezed her hand. “I’ve believed for some time now that you are not as cynical as you let on.”

  “A true romantic would say that.” Delaney asked, earning a smile from her friend before their gazes drifted over the ballroom. “Oh, look. I see my cousins below. Shall we beg them for a dance? I’ll give you first pick, since I’ve no preference for Maddox over Munroe or the other way around.”

  “I think I’d rather watch Emma. Or rather, watch Lord Rathburn glare at her partner. Rathburn looks perfectly capable of murder.” Normally, those words wouldn’t be said with such delight, but they were all swept away in Emma’s unexpected betrothal. “Penelope was quite right. That is a possessive look if ever I’ve seen one.”

  The moment Delaney saw it, she felt a twinge of longing. Not for Rathburn, but to have her own gentleman look at her that way. And to know that he wasn’t thinking of her dowry. It was a foolish, impossible dream, she knew. One she would never reveal, not even to her closest friends.

  “If I stand still a moment longer I shall explode.” Delaney gripped the railing with both hands, hoping it would help her expend some of her ceaseless energy. It didn’t work. “Would you forgive me for leaving you alone for one set?”

  Her friend laughed. “Of course not. I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long.”

  “Give me a full report as soon as I return,” she said without a backward glance as she descended the stairs, intending to dance a full set with either of her cousins.

  However, when she skirted passed the potted topiary at the bottom of the stairs, she abruptly crashed into a wall. Or more precisely, a wall of Corinthian blue superfine wool and the solid gentleman beneath. She lifted her gaze . . . oh, and not just any gentleman either, but the ever-charming, dashing, and penniless Lord Lucan Montwood. Rumor had it that he was recently cut off from his family without a farthing. Quite unexpectedly, opportunity arose.

  “Forgive me, I—” they both said in unison and then laughed at their syncopated mimicry.

  With a rakish grin, he took a step back, snapped his arms against his sides and bowed his dark head. “Miss McFarland.”

  “Lord Montwood.” Delaney curtsied, refusing to allow his smile or the fact that he’d remembered her name go to her head. She knew enough to realize that a young gentleman in need of a fortune must marry a young woman in possession of one. Therefore, he likely kept a list of potential candidates. If she were to fault him for knowing her name because of her dowry, then she was indeed a hypocrite. After all, they were the same creatures but in reverse.

  Still, she couldn’t resist the temptation to make her observation known. “I must say I’m pleased you remember my name. After all, it’s been above a year since we were introduced.”

  His magnetic smile never faltered. “I’ve often wondered why we never seem to attend the same gatherings. Then again, I’ve also noticed that a certain . . . Mr. Croft and I frequent the same parties.”

  She laughed outright. It probably wasn’t proper. Most likely, she should have blushed and pretended she hadn’t a clue to what he was referring. But that wasn’t her way. “Perhaps I keep a fervent schedule to ensure that he and I are never seen attending the sa
me dinners and balls.”

  Though she said it in a teasing manner, the truth wasn’t far off.

  Montwood studied her closely for a moment. While his charming countenance remained steadfast, his amber eyes suddenly sharpened. “You don’t strike me as the type to care whether or not the ton wags their tongues in your direction. So perhaps there is another reason you avoid him.”

  She arched a brow, wishing she had half of Merribeth’s ability for censure in a single look. “That is a bold speech for someone who hasn’t spoken with me above half an hour.”

  “Too bold?” He smiled then, flashing a dimple that was nearly impossible to resist.

  “Quite.”

  “Then allow me to make it up to you.” He glanced over his shoulder and gestured toward the dancers. “This set is nearly over, but I’ve no attachments for the next. That is, unless your card is full.”

  “I believe you already knew the answer before you asked,” she said, her smile returning. “I think very few people would accuse you of being impulsive.”

  For the first time, his façade fell. In an instant, his expression turned hard and cold, revealing the rough edges of whatever it was he fought to conceal. “The few whom I consider friends understand my methods and the motivation behind them.”

  In that tense moment, she felt her inner flame spark. Determination filled her. The stark reality of his situation and hers collided in a flash of inspiration. Everything was about to fall into place.

  “Then perhaps you would consider me a friend,” she said, living up to her impulsive reputation. Yet in the next breath, she managed to shock even herself. “I have a proposition that, I believe, will aid us both in achieving our ultimate goals.”

  Griffin assisted Octavia Croft down from the carriage and waited in turn for Phoebe and Asteria.

  “As much as I love my sister, I’m almost glad she had to cancel her dinner party this evening,” his mother said, unable to conceal her grin as she stared up at the Dorset mansion ablaze with lights in every window. “Although a megrim is a terrible ordeal. I must remember to send her a box of chocolates on the morrow.”