Finding Miss McFarland Read online

  Amused, Griffin wondered if the gift would be an aid for her recovery or an expression of gratitude. “Perhaps another box of chocolates for Lady Dorset as well, for graciously receiving our party at the last minute.”

  “The Dorset ball,” his mother breathed the words. “I remember attending these during my Seasons. Who would have thought my dear friend Hortensia would marry Lord Dorset’s heir? And they have a young man just the age for my girls.”

  The twins linked arms on either side of their mother. “One young man for both of us, Mother?”

  “That would create quite the scandal.”

  Octavia shushed her girls and warned them to mind their steps. If the evidence left behind from numerous horses was any indication of the number of guests in attendance, this ball was quite the crush.

  “Speaking of scandal,” Phoebe said with a devilish gleam in her dark gaze, “I do believe Bree McFarland and her sister will be in attendance. What do you imagine the chatter will be if you are seen together? Or perhaps even dancing?”

  Griffin’s shoulders stiffened as they passed liveried footmen and crossed the threshold. “As a Croft, you would do better not to mention the words scandal and Miss McFarland in the same sentence, or likely tongues will begin to waggle about you.”

  The last thing he wanted was to hear about Miss McFarland all evening. Shockingly, he’d found it difficult to put their latest encounter out of his mind.

  The twins tipped forward and exchanged a look. Then, as if privy to their unspoken conversation, their mother tutted. “Girls, your brother is right. Besides, you must remember that this Season is not solely for your own benefits but for Griffin’s as well.”

  He didn’t respond. They were all counting on him to find a wife and secure the title for the sake of their family. The problem was, he wasn’t any closer now than he had been a year ago. All this time, he’d wanted to feel a sense of connection with his future wife—an ability to share a single look and somehow know . . . everything. So far, he hadn’t found that.

  As they ascended the stairs, the hum of voices and swell of music flowed through the open ballroom doors, where two additional liveried footmen stood sentinel.

  “I found it strange that we didn’t see the elder Miss McFarland at the Sumpters’ musicale the other night, especially with her father and sister in attendance,” Asteria mused. When they reached the top of the stairs, their mother stepped forward to chat amicably with Lady Dorset.

  Not wanting to encourage another mention of Miss McFarland, Griffin ushered the younger twin forward to be introduced to their hosts. Of course, with his sisters being of like mind, Phoebe took up where Asteria had left off.

  “And I distinctly recall her mentioning she had plans for that evening, though I cannot think for what.” The purposeful way her gaze slid to his told him that she was more interested in his reaction to the news and not in recounting a fact. “After all, the musicale was the only noteworthy engagement.”

  He’d guessed the answer already. Delaney McFarland was still avoiding him, especially after their encounter in the parlor. It seemed that whenever they were in close proximity, disaster ensued. Or perhaps it was just her way.

  Again, when he ignored one sister and ushered her forth for an introduction, the other one began. “I’ve given this a great deal of thought, and I believe it was love sickness.”

  Griffin fought the urge to release an exhausted exhale to the heavens. “I’m certain you have better things to occupy your mind.” He couldn’t wait to find them enough dance partners to keep them too busy to meddle in his affairs.

  “It’s the fluttering,” Asteria stated, as if she were the premier expert on love sickness.

  He knew he shouldn’t ask—oh, how he knew—because it was just like his sisters to make a nonsensical declaration and leave it at that. It was maddening. Yet they always managed to reel him in. “I beg your pardon?”

  She blinked up at him as if he were a halfwit. “From love at first sight. That’s when it happened, after all. The moment she saw you.”

  Phoebe joined them again. “Then you told him? Good,” she said with a sigh of relief. “Now I won’t have to worry about slipping up and saying it at breakfast.”

  “True. It’s hardly breakfast conversation.” Asteria shielded her eyes from the chandeliers as she looked up toward the gallery. “Oh, look. There is Bree now. I wonder where her sister could be.”

  Phoebe stepped forward. “Her coloring should be easy to spot. Griffin, do you see her?”

  His head was spinning. If these two managed to marry, their husbands would be in Bedlam in under a fortnight. Confoundedly, he found himself scanning the room all the same.

  Love sickness? The idea was preposterous . . . and yet somewhat diverting.

  After a moment, he spotted Miss McFarland just before she disappeared around a pruned juniper in the corner and slipped behind a grand but narrow tapestry that extended from the floor to the vaulted ceiling. A prickling sensation caused the hair at his nape to lift, almost as if he sensed she was up to no good. Although he couldn’t know that. He barely knew her.

  “Perhaps the retiring room,” Asteria said to her sister just as their mother joined them.

  “Girls, I told you not to drink too much tea before we left,” Octavia chastised quietly. “However, if you already need the retiring room, you’ll find it up those stairs and to the right.”

  Griffin stared again at the tapestry that was nowhere near the retiring room and caught a glimpse of Lord Lucan Montwood disappearing behind the hidden doorway in the same moment.

  The prickles at his nape turned into a full-fledged warning bell.

  He knew enough about Montwood to know that a woman in possession of a fortune was not safe near him.

  “I know it seems unconventional,” Delaney concluded, watching skepticism darken Montwood’s features.

  In the scant moonlight drifting in through the conservatory windows, his brow furrowed. “You said it yourself a few moments ago—we haven’t even spoken above half an hour, and here you are, offering yourself in marriage to an impoverished second son, who by all accounts will gamble away every shilling you possess.”

  She held up a hand to clarify. “I’m not offering myself. I’m only offering my fortune. We would keep separate addresses. You would live your life and I mine.”

  He shook his head. “Why would you do this?”

  “If I were a man with my own means, I’d need never marry. Since I am an unmarried woman, however, I am allowed very little freedom to live how I choose. I want that freedom.” She noticed her hands had clenched into fists as she spoke and made a point to relax them before she continued. “Surely I need not tell you how trying it is to require constant approval from a parent who sees every venture as a foolhardy pursuit.” Rumor had it that his father was an absolute tyrant.

  Now, all she had to do was convince Montwood to sign a contract that would release half of her dowry to her. When he sat down on a nearby bench and released a long exhale, it was all the encouragement she needed. Soon, she would be the possessor of her own fortune, and no one could tell her how to use it. Her inner flame flared in triumph.

  She was wearing him down.

  Griffin slipped behind the tapestry and entered a long arched hallway. Closed doors flanked either side. Listening carefully at the first, he heard nothing and moved on to the next. His sense of wariness grew as he neared the end of the hall. A slight jog down a narrow passage opened to a conservatory. A very dark conservatory.

  The cloying scent of camellia and orange blossom greeted him as he stepped inside. Tall panes of glass formed walls that bowed out toward the garden. Yet only the barest gleam of moonlight made its way through the foliage of potted trees and hanging plants.

  He spotted Miss McFarland standing near a fountain in the center of the room. Montwood was only steps away, seated on a wrought-iron bench, his expression severe and thoughtful, as if he were listening to an accounting of his s
ins by Saint Peter.

  “I realize my proposal must seem unusual, even abrupt,” she said as Griffin stepped within earshot but kept to the shadowy path between the trees. “However, I believe a marriage in name only would benefit us both. You would gain a fortune and maintain a discreet amount of freedom, while I would gain my own home, completely separate from yours.”

  Montwood sat forward. “And you would do this for me? For someone you hardly know?”

  “Barring that you have no other obligations or romantic entanglements,” she said with an ambiguous lift of her shoulders. “It is as much for me as it is for you. The sooner I marry, the sooner the betting books at White’s concerning my dowry will be closed forever. And yes, I can see by the gleam in your eyes that you recognize a way to win twofold, which is fine with me.”

  Griffin couldn’t believe his ears. A sudden rush of rage swept through him. He forcibly stopped himself from charging into the center of the room. But as he did, his sole scraped across the tile at his feet.

  Miss McFarland looked over her shoulder toward the doorway and then back to her would-be groom. “It would be safer to speak of this if you came to call and invited me for a drive in the park.”

  “Tomorrow,” Montwood agreed as he rose. “For now, I’ll leave through the garden door and return to the ballroom by way of the terrace. That way, should you change your mind, you wouldn’t be forced into marriage by threat of ruination. Good evening, Miss McFarland. You might very well be my angel of mercy.”

  If Montwood had so much as reached out to kiss her hand, Griffin would have charged in like a contender at Five Courts and planted a right solid facer. Thankfully, the dissolute cad slunk back into the shadows. A moment later, the faint squeak of the hinge and then the quiet click of the latch punctuated the fact that they were alone.

  “Kindly reveal yourself,” Miss McFarland said to the room, impatience emanating from her stiff posture. “If you’d hoped to either frighten me or begin a new rumor, I can assure you that your plans are futile. If it’s money you want—”

  “Has no one ever told you that money is the force that drives all evil deeds and evil-doers, Miss McFarland?”

  “Mr. Croft!” She started. Her violet eyes widened as he stepped into the center of the room. Doubtless, she had no idea how those three syllables wreaked such havoc inside him. “What are you doing here?”

  Gritting his teeth to control his temper and the contract-release-contract sensation she caused, he tugged at the square front of his waistcoat. “I might ask the same of you.”

  “No. I mean here, at the Dorset ball. You were supposed to be dining with your aunt this evening.”

  Ah. So then, his assumptions were correct. She had been purposely avoiding him.

  He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace around her in a circle. “Do you have spies informing you on my whereabouts at all times or only for social gatherings?”

  She watched his movements for a moment, but then she pursed those pink lips and smoothed the front of her cream gown. “I do what I must to avoid being seen at the same function with you. Until recently, I imagined we shared this unspoken agreement.”

  “Rumormongers rarely remember innocent bystanders.”

  She scoffed. “How nice for you.”

  “Yes, and until recently, I was under the impression that I came and went of my own accord, that my decisions were mine alone. Instead, I learn that every choice I make falls beneath your scrutiny.” He was more agitated than angered, not to mention intrigued and unaccountably aroused by her admission. During a Season packed full of social engagements, she must require daily reports of his activities. Which begged the question, how often did she think of him? “Shall I quiz you on how I take my tea? Or if my valet prefers to tie my cravat into a barrel knot or horse collar?”

  “I do not know, nor do I care, how you take your tea, Mr. Croft,” she said, and he clenched his teeth to keep from asking her to say his name once more. “However, since I am somewhat of an expert on fashion, I’d say that the elegant fall of the mail coach knot you’re wearing this evening suits the structure of your face. The sapphire pin could make one imagine that your eyes are blue—”

  “But you know differently.”

  Her cheeks went pink before she drew in a breath and settled her hand over her middle. Before he could stop the thought, he wondered if she was experiencing the fluttering his sister had mentioned.

  “You are determined to be disagreeable. I have made my attempts at civility, but now I am quite through with you. If you’ll excuse me . . .” She started forward to leave.

  He blocked her path, unable to forget what he’d heard when he first arrived. “I cannot let you go without a dire warning for your own benefit.”

  “If this is in regards to what you overheard—when you were eavesdropping on a private matter—I won’t hear it.”

  He doubted she would listen to him if he meant to warn her about a great hole in the earth directly in her path either, but his conscience demanded he speak the words nonetheless. “Montwood is a desperate man, and you have put yourself in his power.”

  Her eyes flashed. “That is where you are wrong. I am the one with the fortune; ergo, the one with the power.”

  How little she knew of men. “And what of your reputation?”

  Her laugh did nothing to amuse him. “What I have left of my reputation will remain unscathed. He is not interested in my person. He only needs my fortune. In addition, as a second son, he does not require an heir; therefore, our living apart should not cause a problem with his family. And should he need companionship, he is free to do so elsewhere, as long as he’s discreet.”

  “You sell yourself so easily, believing your worth is nothing more than your father’s account ledger,” he growled, his temper getting the better of him. He’d never lost control of it before, but for some reason, this tested his limits. If he could see she was more than a sum of wealth, then she should damn well put a higher value on herself. “If you were my sister, I’d lock you in a convent for the rest of your days.”

  Miss McFarland stepped forward and pressed the tip of her manicured finger in between the buttons of his waistcoat. “I am not your sister, Mr. Croft. And thank the heavens for that gift too. I can barely stand to be in the same room with you. You make it impossible to breathe, let alone think. Neither my lungs nor my stomach recalls how to function. Not only that, but you cause this terrible crackling sensation beneath my skin, and it feels like I’m about to catch fire.” Her lips parted, and her small bosom rose and fell with each breath. “I do believe I loathe you to the very core of your being, Mr. Croft.”

  Somewhere between the first Mis-ter Croft and the last, he’d lost all sense.

  Because in the very next moment, he gripped her shoulders, hauled her against him, and crushed his mouth to hers.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  For the first time in her life, Delaney stood perfectly still.

  She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t even blink her eyes.

  This couldn’t be happening. Griffin Croft wasn’t kissing her. He wasn’t lifting her to her toes in the middle of the conservatory, just steps away from the crush of the Dorset ballroom.

  And yet . . . he was.

  His warm, hard mouth slanted over hers. Wondrously heated breaths flared from his nostrils, igniting the air between them. Where his chin pressed into hers, she could feel the tiniest unshaven whiskers inside the deepest part of his cleft. Her breasts flattened hard against his chest, and the pounding of his heart felt like a fist threatening to break through a door. Only she was that door. Down the center of her back, his hand roamed. Fingers splayed, he touched every rib and vertebra as if committing her skeleton to memory. His exploration continued until that hand settled into the dip just above the rise of her derriere. And then, he drew her even closer.

  If she’d worn stays, she was certain she wouldn’t be able to feel the buttons of his waistcoat. Wouldn’t be able t
o feel her nipples harden, sprouting to life beneath the layers of fine linen and silk.

  The crackling that possessed her every time Griffin Croft was near burned hotter than before. Instead of pinpricks of heat, tiny flames licked over her flesh, threatening to char every inch. This time, she didn’t mind in the least.

  “Open for me,” he growled against her lips, tilting up her chin.

  It was only when she felt his other hand teasing the underside of her jaw that she realized he was no longer the one keeping her up on her toes. Well, not entirely. The hand nestled into her lower back was doing a fair job of holding her against him. Yet the arms she’d twined around his neck were doing the rest.

  Impulsively curious, she did as he bade, wondering what new sensations would unfold. His staggered breath puffed against the damp underside of her lips. In that moment of hesitation, she opened her eyes, having no idea when they’d drifted closed.

  What she saw in his gaze stole the last remaining breath from her lungs. It, too, came out staggered. Brown and blue colors swirled together in that beautiful lake water she’d noticed only days ago, but what she hadn’t noticed was how it seemed to churn and undulate beneath the surface, as if coming to a slow simmer. The heat of it was so potent she could almost touch it with her fingertips, sure they would come back blistered.

  What startled her most of all was how his gaze seemed to reflect everything inside of her.

  Suddenly, she wanted to push away. “Mr. Croft, I—”

  A low sound tore from his throat as he captured her mouth again. His tongue swept inside, tangling with hers, teasing her enough to follow, to taste, to traverse the ridges and valleys of teeth and palate, leaving nothing unexplored. She knew the flavor of him now. Swallowed the essence of him—the tang that was slightly salty, slightly sweet, and more pleasant than she could have ever guessed.