He stared at his cup. If a half dozen sugar lumps were visible, that half dozen must be resting atopanotherfour or five lumps. If he stirred this much sugar into the mix, it would taste more like syrup than tea. With a squeeze or two of lemon instead of milk, it would practically become…
Marmalade.
He jerked his startled gaze toward Miss Wynchester.
The corners of her mouth twitched. She could not hide the wicked twinkle in her eyes.
“How?” he mouthed to her.
She lifted a dainty shoulder, then brought her teacup to her lips to hide a grin.
He narrowed his eyes.
She pursed her lips as if about to blow him a kiss, then covered her mouth with her teacup.
Impertinent minx.
Her actions were not materially different from his own quest for the chair she would hate to sit in the least. He’d been trying to make an unpleasant thing more palatable for her, and she had done the same for him.
But why must they suffer through distasteful things? Could he not provide something for her that sheliked, without qualifications or compromise?
Of course he could. He was the Duke of Faircliffe. What good were all of his privileges if he could not use them to make someone happy?
Pensive, Lawrence stayed long enough to speak to Miss York and pay his respects to her mother. Ostensibly, that was why he’d come.
But the moment he could gracefully escape, he leapt into his coach and directed his driver to the best milliner in all of London.
He would have to sell a few more books, but bringing a smile to Miss Wynchester’s face would be worth it.
If the milliner found the duke’s shopping list curious—a dozen plain bonnets in varying styles, feathers of every shape and size, a rainbow of ribbons, handfuls of wax fruit and several fake birds—he was far too polite to comment.
Within the hour Lawrence had it all unpacked atop his dining room table. He and Miss Wynchester would part ways after the gala, but before then he would give her a moment they would both remember forever.
One of the maids passed through the dining room and skidded to a stop.
“Might I inquire,” Peggy said, failing to hide her obvious amusement, “what Your Grace is doing?”
His voice dripped with icy haughtiness. “I amtrimmingabonnet.”
They looked at the table, then at each other.
“Badly,” he added.
They both burst into laughter.
“Ring for the others,” he said with a sigh. “If I’m to make an utter fool of myself, I might as well do soen famille. We can all be mad as hatters.”
In moments Lawrence and every remaining member of staff hunched over the dining room table, fighting over wax fruit and trading spindles of colored thread to match decorative ribbons.
Peggy and Dinah, the maids, proved the most competent with a needle. Mrs. Elkins, the cook, had a heavy hand when pasting adornments to the crown of her bonnet.
“It’s not marzipan,” Hastings chided her, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief.
Mrs. Elkins sniffed in disdain, but twin spots of color bloomed on her round cheeks.
“Miss Wynchester will love these, Your Grace,” Dinah assured Lawrence.
Jackson, the footman, beheld his lopsided creation doubtfully. “Will she?”
