time in as long as he could remember, he was in a quandary that didn’t seem to have a solution. The baronet and his wife were cold, humorless people, scheming to marry off their daughter, probably to him—and they were ensconced at his house.
His private abode.
The place where he wanted to be himself … to do what he wanted to do.
And Miss Hartley! Well, she was the last woman on earth he’d want to marry, no matter how sweet and lacking in guile she was.
In disgust he’d gone to his club to forget them all. But that hadn’t happened, obviously. When he returned home before dusk, he found Sir Ned and Lady Hartley waiting for him, like spiders in a web, in the drawing room.
“We want to tell you something of importance,” said Sir Ned. “After a discussion with my wife, we’ve decided that Miranda will entertain your suit. Marrying you would save us a great deal of time and expense. We could go home tomorrow and stop in Canterbury for the special license.”
Stephen was silent with shock, but then he thought to ask, “Miss Hartley, don’t you care to experience the Marriage Mart?”
Miss Hartley blushed and stammered, “W-who am I to question my parents?”
“Don’t worry about not being her equal, Arrow,” Sir Ned said. “I have enough money and titles to make up for your lack of either.”
“We can fudge the truth,” said Lady Hartley. “On tour, at least. We can claim you’re a baron or earl and no one would ever know the difference.”
“I’m not interested,” Stephen said. “I’m already … pursuing someone else.”
“Who?” asked Miss Hartley.
He glanced out the window and saw Miss Jones working in her flower beds.
“Miss Jones,” he said, and immediately realized his desperation had caused a lapse in his usually impeccable judgment.
No one would choose Miss Jilly Jones, the owner of Hodgepodge, as a possible wife. She was too unmanageable. Wives were supposed to be meek, which was why he’d never marry. Stephen wasn’t fond of meek women. They bored him.
“I’m sorry,” he corrected himself. “I meant to say I’m interested in pursuing, ah, another woman. Several doors down. Miss Jones’s friend .”
“What’s her name?” Miss Hartley lisped.
Stephen started. He hadn’t thought of a name, of course. He was about to say “Sarah Pimsdale,” which sounded like the name of a perfectly manageable miss when Sir Ned interrupted him.
“Right,” the baronet said with a cocky grin. “Too late to cover it up. You want to marry Miss Jones.” He looked at his wife. “Who’s Miss Jones?”
Lady Hartley merely shrugged and stared daggers at the world. It seemed the news had put her in an awful pout.
Miss Hartley rushed to the window. “You’re looking at her right now, aren’t you, Captain?” She pointed at his ebony-haired neighbor, who was now pulling weeds. “ She’s the one who’s stolen your heart. Miss Joneth, the bookseller.”
“Before you even had a chance to get here, dear Miranda,” Lady Hartley muttered, then turned to her husband. “Do something, Ned.”
Sir Ned’s chins began an almost imperceptible jiggle, and a keen light shone from his eyes. “Right you are, my love.” He adjusted his coat and stood. “I’m off to see the lady, Captain Arrow. Take us to see Miss Jones.”
“Why should I?” He went into full-fledged defensive mode, backing up toward the drawing room door, and then to the front door, to block Sir Ned from leaving.
“Stand aside,” said Sir Ned, approaching him with a determined, if very short, stride.
What was Stephen supposed to do? If Sir Ned challenged him, he certainly wasn’t going to fight the man. He was too old. It would be unsporting of him to land the stubborn fool a facer.
Right now he could only hope the baronet would be intimidated enough to turn around.
But he obviously wasn’t. He tapped Stephen in the chest. “I want to become acquainted with the woman who’s blinded you to Miranda’s
His private abode.
The place where he wanted to be himself … to do what he wanted to do.
And Miss Hartley! Well, she was the last woman on earth he’d want to marry, no matter how sweet and lacking in guile she was.
In disgust he’d gone to his club to forget them all. But that hadn’t happened, obviously. When he returned home before dusk, he found Sir Ned and Lady Hartley waiting for him, like spiders in a web, in the drawing room.
“We want to tell you something of importance,” said Sir Ned. “After a discussion with my wife, we’ve decided that Miranda will entertain your suit. Marrying you would save us a great deal of time and expense. We could go home tomorrow and stop in Canterbury for the special license.”
Stephen was silent with shock, but then he thought to ask, “Miss Hartley, don’t you care to experience the Marriage Mart?”
Miss Hartley blushed and stammered, “W-who am I to question my parents?”
“Don’t worry about not being her equal, Arrow,” Sir Ned said. “I have enough money and titles to make up for your lack of either.”
“We can fudge the truth,” said Lady Hartley. “On tour, at least. We can claim you’re a baron or earl and no one would ever know the difference.”
“I’m not interested,” Stephen said. “I’m already … pursuing someone else.”
“Who?” asked Miss Hartley.
He glanced out the window and saw Miss Jones working in her flower beds.
“Miss Jones,” he said, and immediately realized his desperation had caused a lapse in his usually impeccable judgment.
No one would choose Miss Jilly Jones, the owner of Hodgepodge, as a possible wife. She was too unmanageable. Wives were supposed to be meek, which was why he’d never marry. Stephen wasn’t fond of meek women. They bored him.
“I’m sorry,” he corrected himself. “I meant to say I’m interested in pursuing, ah, another woman. Several doors down. Miss Jones’s friend .”
“What’s her name?” Miss Hartley lisped.
Stephen started. He hadn’t thought of a name, of course. He was about to say “Sarah Pimsdale,” which sounded like the name of a perfectly manageable miss when Sir Ned interrupted him.
“Right,” the baronet said with a cocky grin. “Too late to cover it up. You want to marry Miss Jones.” He looked at his wife. “Who’s Miss Jones?”
Lady Hartley merely shrugged and stared daggers at the world. It seemed the news had put her in an awful pout.
Miss Hartley rushed to the window. “You’re looking at her right now, aren’t you, Captain?” She pointed at his ebony-haired neighbor, who was now pulling weeds. “ She’s the one who’s stolen your heart. Miss Joneth, the bookseller.”
“Before you even had a chance to get here, dear Miranda,” Lady Hartley muttered, then turned to her husband. “Do something, Ned.”
Sir Ned’s chins began an almost imperceptible jiggle, and a keen light shone from his eyes. “Right you are, my love.” He adjusted his coat and stood. “I’m off to see the lady, Captain Arrow. Take us to see Miss Jones.”
“Why should I?” He went into full-fledged defensive mode, backing up toward the drawing room door, and then to the front door, to block Sir Ned from leaving.
“Stand aside,” said Sir Ned, approaching him with a determined, if very short, stride.
What was Stephen supposed to do? If Sir Ned challenged him, he certainly wasn’t going to fight the man. He was too old. It would be unsporting of him to land the stubborn fool a facer.
Right now he could only hope the baronet would be intimidated enough to turn around.
But he obviously wasn’t. He tapped Stephen in the chest. “I want to become acquainted with the woman who’s blinded you to Miranda’s
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