Finding Miss McFarland Page 6

  Wanting more of this elixir, her hands found the back of his head and drew him closer. His soft wavy hair was cool at the tips but blazing with heat at his scalp. She slanted her mouth over his in the opposite direction. This time, she nudged his lips apart. She sought his tongue, butting up against his in a sudden frenzy of need that sent a swift jolt of warning through her.

  Something within her had awakened. Something that fed off kisses and burned with an intensity she’d never known.

  Something that threatened the life she wanted for herself.

  Suddenly, she broke away from him, giving his shoulders a little shove in the process. He released her instantly and stared down at his hands as if they alone were the culprits of this whole affair.

  “Miss McFarland,” he said, his breathing labored, his broad shoulders straining against the impeccably tailored tailcoat. “I want you to know that I had no intention of kissing you when I came in here. In fact, my thoughts were centered solely on making sure you understood the dangers of being alone with a man.”

  She recoiled. His words were like a slap, and one hard enough to shake the last of the fog from her mind. Only now did she realize what a fool she’d been. He’d had no intention of kissing her . . . as if the mere idea were abhorrent to him. For a moment, she’d actually thought he’d found her desirable—not her fortune but her person, her entire being—so much so that he couldn’t help himself. And she’d responded in kind.

  Hearing the truth wounded her pride more than she thought it could. “I’m ashamed to admit how well you’ve made your point, Mr. Croft.”

  He shook his head, plowing a hand through his hair. “What I meant to say was—”

  “I’m sure in our limited acquaintance we’ve both intended for each of our encounters to unfold differently. Let’s simply add this to our list of disasters, shall we?” She smoothed the front of her gown and hoped she didn’t look as wrinkled as she felt. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to return to the ballroom before our names are once again joined in scandal.”

  As she passed, he reached out and grasped her arm. “I was speaking of Montwood. He’s not to be trusted. And if his creditors see him driving in the park with you, they’ll soon find a way to make him truly desperate. All I ask is that you take that under consideration.”

  “While I appreciate your unsolicited advice, what I do or do not do with Lord Montwood is none of your concern.” She cast him a withering glare. “Now, if you’ll unhand me, I’ll bid you farewell.”

  He released her at once.

  Delaney held her head high as she walked out of the conservatory. She only wished she didn’t feel so cold inside.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Seven and twenty,” George Croft said to his son, adding a whistle at the end. This morning, they sat alone in the curricle for his father’s first outing in over a fortnight. “By this age, I’d been married four years and widowed one.”

  Griffin kept the reins steady in his grip and stared straight ahead to the park’s path. This was his father’s not-so-subtle way of reminding him of his duty to find a bride—and soon. “I’m attending every event my schedule will allow. Unfortunately, this year is far too much like the last.” Aside from one night—the night of the incident—the previous Season had been tedious at best. Worse yet, the highlight of this Season had been a stolen moment in the Dorsets’ conservatory the night before last with the same damnable woman.

  “Then perhaps you aren’t attending the right events. I know she’s out there.” His father slapped his hand across his knee. “Why, if it hadn’t been for a change in my schedule, I’d never have met your mother. Three years I’d waited to remarry, waited to find the right one. The one that stood out from the rest. Then it was like a curtain parted . . . and there she was.”

  At his father’s words, Griffin hoped his imagination would conjure a vision of his future bride, pointing him toward the right path. The only thing he saw was a peculiar swath of flame bright red obscuring his view.

  It must be the sun shining against his eyelids.

  “Of course, I want you to find love or at least a woman you can stand,” his father added, now with a pat on Griffin’s shoulder, “but a healthy woman, not like my first wife. Prudence was a pretty little thing but perhaps too young and far too delicate. Miscarried three babes before she went off to heaven to be with them, rest her soul.”

  Last year, Griffin had been asked to find the love of his life. This year, he was asked to find a healthy woman he could stand.

  Under other circumstances, he’d laugh. However, he knew the importance of finding a bride. At fifty-seven, his father’s health was fading. The only way for Griffin to give him peace of mind was to find a wife and quickly issue a male heir upon her. That way, if an accident or early demise should befall him, his wife, children, mother, and sisters would be well provided for and not at the mercy of a distant cousin.

  He exhaled a deep breath, feeling a weight pressing against him. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have the desire to marry. Even before his father’s cousin—his great-uncle’s heir—had died of consumption, he’d thought about it. Though before that and before his father had his first heart seizure, it had seemed unlikely that Griffin would inherit. There’d been no rush. He’d simply been waiting for the curtain to part and reveal his future bride.

  Now, it was a matter of great urgency, and he couldn’t find one suitable woman who kindled his interest.

  “What about that Miss McFarland?” his father asked, startling him. “I realize after the mishap last year that any acquaintance with her is unlikely. As I recall, it caused quite the stir. On the other hand, your mother said she was a charming girl, though not necessarily pretty.”

  Ignoring the sudden escalation of his pulse at the mention of that name, Griffin felt a frown pull against his brow. “Mother said she wasn’t pretty?”

  “She said something to the effect of a freckled complexion, hair that was too bright and wayward, and eyes a shade or two . . . off.”

  “Off,” Griffin found himself murmuring, and he wondered if his mother had seen the same woman.

  He hadn’t noticed that her freckles marred her complexion. Actually, he found they added to her vibrancy, the way spices enhance a bland meal. Not only that, but to him, her hair was fascinatingly unruly. Certainly not too bright. As for her eyes, the violet was quite striking and unusual. Especially up close, with her warm breath filling his mouth, the heat of her body under his hands, and . . .

  He shook his head to clear the memory from his mind. Off? Never.

  Thoughts of the other night in the Dorsets’ conservatory plagued him. Not only the kiss but her conversation with Montwood as well.

  His hands tightened on the reins as he fought a swift rise of annoyance. “Regardless of what Mother may think of her charms, Miss McFarland is too maddening a creature for consideration. She’s far too impulsive and reckless and . . . maddening,” he repeated, just in case his father wasn’t certain where he stood on the matter.

  George Croft sat back and rested a hand on the side of the curricle, tapping his fingers to an unheard tune. “Then you’d want to avoid a young woman like that in order to focus on more suitable candidates.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” he said with a derisive laugh. “She ensures we are never seen at the same function, if at all possible. In fact, since her debut—a full year ago, mind you—we’ve only met by chance three times.” The stray bonnet in the park, the disaster in the parlor, the blunder in the conservatory . . . hmm. Had it really only been three times? The fact that it seemed like a greater number of encounters bespoke of how ill suited they were, no doubt.

  “And how do you think she manages to avoid you all the time?” his father asked.

  Griffin gave the reins a snap, pushing the horses into a trot down the park path. “Do you know she admitted to having me watched for the purpose of avoiding me?” Ludicrous. It irritated him to think that she cared whether or not the ton s
aw them attend the same function.

  “Odd, but likely she has her reasons,” his father mused, his fingers still tapping. “Though it seems a man wouldn’t want such a woman to have the upper hand all the time. In fact, it might even serve her right—give her a taste of her own medicine, to my way of thinking—if she thought you were attending one event, when you actually intended to go to another. Just as a way to even the score.”

  Griffin found himself nodding, pleased with the idea of getting the better of Delaney McFarland. Perhaps surprising her at the Dorset ball had whetted his appetite. “You know, Father, you might be on to something.”

  For the past two mornings, Delaney had received a missive from Montwood, informing her of his regrets. Yesterday it had been a forgotten previous engagement, and today he’d been called out of town for the remainder of the week. Yet even on paper, he exuded charm, stating how much he looked forward to their ride in the park, very soon.

  Delaney did her best not to feel slighted, but her inner flame was still a fragile, flickering little thing. She’d looked forward to an outing with Montwood, though for an entirely different reason than her original purpose. Now, she wanted to ride in the park—preferably in an open barouche—solely to put Griffin Croft in his place. The gall of that man, believing he had the right to dictate her actions! She couldn’t wait to show him what she thought of his opinion.

  Unfortunately, today’s missive kept her spirits low. That was, until she remembered that she was meeting her friends for their needlework circle. Surely an afternoon with her friends was just the thing to lift her spirits.

  The idea made her feel better, and she mounted the servants’ stairs to the attic.

  Tillie, a wholesome-faced young woman with a tidy knot of corn silk hair, opened the door. “Almost done, miss,” Tillie said with a needle clamped between her lips and a scrap of muslin in her grasp.

  Because of Gil McFarland’s temper, a considerable number of Delaney’s personal maids had come and gone in this house. Many of the more timid ones had left their notices at the door and vanished in the middle of the night. Of course, Delaney knew her impossible hair had played a part in that too. After all, no self-respecting lady’s maid would want to take credit for her untamable mess of curls. Which left Tillie, who’d never trained a day as a maid. Actually, she’d worked in the kitchen.

  When Delaney’s previous maid had quit, taking her younger brother—the McFarlands’ former tiger—with her the night before her debut, Delaney had asked the staff if there were any volunteers to fill the vacant position. Tillie had been the only one brave enough to step forward, sealing her fate with “I’ll give it a go.” In her kitchen experience, she’d come up with an olive-oil-and-lavender concoction that had helped tame some of the more fearsome tangles that night.

  To this day, Tillie knew nothing about either hair or fashion. She couldn’t tell sarcenet from paramatta. Even so, her maid’s worth was far above and beyond all those who’d come before her—and all because Delaney didn’t have the patience for needlework.

  Needlework didn’t require enough movement, not to mention, all that sitting. . . .Frankly, the idea of sitting still for longer than absolutely necessary sets my teeth on edge. Nonetheless, she really liked spending time with her friends, and she couldn’t very well sit there with nothing in her lap while everyone else kept punching a needle through fabric as they chatted away.

  So when she’d watched Tillie’s quick needlework that first week, Delaney had been inspired. She’d made a bargain with her maid: if Tillie could produce a partially finished bit of needlework for her twice a week and keep it a secret, then Delaney would style her own hair. Needless to say, the former kitchen maid had leapt at the chance.

  Now, a year later, Tillie wrapped up the bundle of muslin that Delaney would take to Penelope Weatherstone’s parlor this afternoon.

  “I used a bit of wax to mark the space of your next stitches,” Tillie said, her mouth turning into a frown. “It’s no more than a row of half stitches. Just take it slow.”

  In the past year, her maid had expressed disappointment over several projects Delaney had managed to ruin because of her desire to rush. She’d ended up with holes in more than half of them.

  “Not to worry. This one will turn out fine.” Delaney always said that. Still, in her own defense, she had been right some of those times. More or less.

  Tillie sighed. “I’m almost finished adding the extra flounce to your gown for the theater this evening.”

  “Oh, blast!” A sudden realization struck her hard. It wasn’t that she’d forgotten about her plans for the theater. No. It was that she remembered her father’s box was situated directly below the Earl of Marlbrook’s.

  No doubt Griffin Croft would be there. She didn’t know if she could bear to see the man who’d kissed her solely to prove a point. For an all too brief moment, she’d actually imagined he’d been swept away in the moment. She should have known better.

  There was only one thing she could do. She needed to go shopping.

  Also . . . “Tillie, is there time to add one more flounce?”

  Shopping with Calliope and the twins had drained every last ounce of energy from Griffin. He’d barely returned from his outing with Father when they’d dragged him into the waiting carriage, eager for new bonnets and gloves. He hadn’t even had a chance to eat.

  Now, hours later and with packages piled high beside the driver, his lack of sustenance was taking its toll. He yawned and leaned back against the squabs, tilting his beaver hat over one eye.

  One of his sisters called for the driver to stop. Again.

  This day would never end. In fact, he still had to escort the lot of them to the theater this evening. “There couldn’t possibly be a shop you’ve not yet explored.”

  Phoebe grinned. “Bree McFarland mentioned that she frequents Haversham’s in favor of Forrester’s and, since we are passing by, I thought it the perfect time to see why she prefers it.”

  “Likely the reason is because this shop is closer to Danbury Lane, where she and her sister live,” he said, hoping against hope that it was enough to convince her to continue homeward.

  “How do you know where the Misses McFarland live?” Asteria grinned broadly.

  He cursed himself for supplying any sort of encouragement. “The longer you are in society, the sooner you’ll learn where everyone lives.”

  “And speaking of Miss McFarland, I believe that is Bree’s sister outside of Haversham’s this very moment,” Calliope offered. Her sly, sideways smile told him that she knew very well what she was doing.

  He was glad for only one thing—that the betraying leap of his pulse was not observed by the three of them.

  The kiss in the Dorsets’ conservatory had been a mistake, an undisciplined impulse, to which he’d never given in before. Yet he couldn’t deny that the memory of it kept stirring inside him like a bubbling cauldron. Perhaps Miss McFarland had been right all along in her attempts to avoid him.

  Still, knowing she’d been doing so on purpose—even employing a spy—irked him to no end. Therefore, when the coach stopped, he quickly exited the carriage, handing his sisters out one by one. Anticipation filled him.

  Once they were all out, Asteria linked her arm inside his, with Calliope and Phoebe leading the way. “Your sluggishness this afternoon seems to have evaporated, brother.”

  “I’m merely anxious to end the outing and have a moment’s peace,” he said, gazing ahead. From the looks of it, Miss McFarland had left the shop too quickly and was now being hailed by a store clerk, who hoisted her package in the air by the strings.

  With every step, Griffin kept his eyes on the tilt of her sea-foam green bonnet, a length of silver ribbon left untied and flitting about in the breeze. She wore a short jacket with a stiff collar in the same hue and a row of tiny buttons down the front.

  Those buttons stirred him anew, causing him to imagine unfastening them, enticing him to expose the delectably smal
l firm mounds of her bosom beneath the layer of pale muslin she wore today. After their kiss, he’d memorized nearly every fine distinction of her form. Because of that, he knew she didn’t wear stays, which made those buttons almost irresistible.

  “Miss McFarland,” Calliope greeted. “What a pleasure it was to spot you from our carriage. My brother insisted we stop and bid you good afternoon.”

  The bonnet turned. The remains of a furrowed brow quickly dissolved as a seemingly practiced smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Only the barest hint of surprise slipped out by way of the soundless exclamation on her lips, but he saw it all the same. Those violet eyes skimmed across his sisters, one after the other, and then hesitated for the barest part of a second on his. Two dots of pale pink tinged her cheeks as she returned her gaze to the eldest of his sisters.

  The clerk bowed and disappeared back into the store.

  “Miss Croft. What a flattering thing to say,” Miss McFarland replied easily, in no way revealing the fact that she’d looked to be in a terrible rush only a moment ago. “Although . . . I have a younger sister as well, and I know that siblings breakfast on bowls of mischief each morning. It’s far more likely that you are here to see if my Haversham’s is superior to your Forrester’s—which it is, of course, in every way,” she ended with a grin that hinted at a dimple in her left cheek. When she reached up to tuck a flyaway auburn tendril behind her ear, his view was obscured.

  He would’ve liked to have seen the dimple again to be sure it existed. She seldom smiled in his presence—not with genuine amusement instead of with obligatory social politesse—and he felt that he’d just unearthed a great secret.

  “You are too clever, Miss McFarland,” Phoebe said. “Only Griffin ever calls us out for our penchant for mischief. You must have like minds.”

  “More likely, our siblings are quite similar,” she said smoothly, doing a better job at dissuading his sister’s evident matchmaking scheme than he’d done. “And speaking of siblings, I’m certain mine would enjoy a visit from each of you, now that you are on this side of town.”