Marriage.
How had that suddenly become so vital? How had she succumbed to thinking about the men around her as only future prospects? The last thing she wanted to do was assess what kind of husband Mr. Beauford or Lord Dowdle would be, but here she was, doing it. And why? She didn’t even want to get married. She loved her life here. If she married, she would be a stranger in another person’s home. The servants wouldn’t know her, and she wouldn’t know them. Everything would change.
She broke the bread in her hand into tiny pieces on her plate without eating them. Mama and Papa looked at each other but didn’t say anything. If she married, she probably wouldn’t be able to sit with her elbows on the table, sulking. She would have to sit straight and pretend everything was all right, even when it wasn’t. Everything about the idea was about as appetizing as the drying breadcrumbs on her plate.
Kate knocked again and entered with another bouquet of flowers—white roses this time. Mama’s eyebrows rose, and her grin grew into an outright smile.
Mercy sighed. “You did ask me to be agreeable to three men. I was, and it seemed to make them happy. I assume there will be another bouquet and note soon. Who are those from? Lord Buckley?”
Roses seemed like something Lord Buckley would send. They were a respectable choice, and the white color was non-threatening. Lord Buckley was a careful man—one who would tread softly in a courtship.
Of the three men she’d chosen, Lord Buckley was the least likely with whom she would progress to marriage. Careful was the last thing she wanted in a courtship.
Papa read the note. “Yes, they are from Lord Buckley.” He raised his eyes from the page. “Well done, Mercy.” She ground her teeth together. Papa was not one to hold back compliments. He had always been proud of her for the things she had done. But for some reason, having him use the same phrase for receiving a bouquet of flowers from a lord as he had for some of her earlier paintings and her better-performed pianoforte pieces simply felt wrong. “He will also be paying you a visit this afternoon.”
Mercy started ripping the small pieces of bread on her plate into smaller ones. She took a bite of cheese, but it was dry, and the flavor was wrong. She swallowed it down but didn’t enjoy it.
Papa slid both of the cards across the table to her so she could examine them. The messages were nearly identical, although the handwriting was not. Lord Buckley’s letters were small and tightly packed together in neat lines, whereas Lord Buckley’s lettering was elaborate, like he had taken pains to make certain each flourish was noted.
A few minutes later, a third soft knock sounded. Mr. Beauford’s flowers must’ve arrived. He typically sent a small bundle of wildflowers, and although not as expensive as what the two lords had sent her, she preferred them for their delicate blossoms. She loved that they fit on the small side table near her bed.
Kate opened the door, but Mercy didn’t bother to turn and look this time. Mama gasped, and Papa’s eyes widened, then slid to hers. Mercy spun in her chair and made a similar sound to Mama’s sharp intake of breath. Kate’s face was completely hidden by a bouquet of flowers so large she couldn’t hold it in her hands. Instead, her arms were wrapped around the base of it. Therewerewildflowers, but there were also lilies and dahliasand probably every other flower a shop could carry.
Mercy grabbed the side of the table, her mouth even dryer than it had been when she had forcibly swallowed her cheese.
Mr. Beauford had most definitely noticed the change in her last night.
And he had taken it to mean something he shouldn’t have.
“Oh my!” Mama blinked. “Where in the world will we be able to place those?”
Not on Mercy’s bedside table. That was for certain.
Instead of handing the bouquet to Papa, Kate bent over so he could reach the card tucked inside. “I’ll take these to the kitchen. Perhaps Mrs. Brooksby can divide them into several vases.”
“That is a good idea, Kate. Thank you.” Papa opened the card, and his face went pale.
What in heaven’s name had Mr. Beauford written? He wouldn’t have proposed with a note in a bouquet of flowers, would he?
Of course, he wouldn’t. She and Mr. Beauford were friendly, but there had been no courtship, no time together other than consistent dancing at any ball they both attended. It would take more than a few extra smiles to make Mr. Beauford propose.
But those flowers . . .
They must have cost a fortune.
She swallowed and eyed Kate trudging out of the room with her large burden. Mercy hadn’t even had the time to examine it properly. Not that it mattered. She wouldn’t agree to marry Mr. Beauford simply because he had sent her a table full of flowers. She ignored her sudden desire to rush out of the door behind Kate to take in the bouquet as a whole before it was divided. It truly was magnificent. But the last thing she wanted to do was make Mama and Papa think she was sentimentally attached to Mr. Beauford’s flowers.
She turned to Papa, who was still examining the card, turningit over and back as if he didn’t believe what was in his hand. She closed her eyes. This is what listening to Mama had done. She shouldn’t have done it. “What does Mr. Beauford write?”
Papa tipped his head slightly. “It isn’t from Mr. Beauford.”
Not from Mr. Beauford? She had thought . . . but there were wildflowers . . .
Mama leaned toward Papa and read the card over his shoulder. She gasped, grabbed the card from his hand, and flipped it over just as Papa had done. Mama’s eyes scanned down the words written on the card for a second time before turning to Papa. “The Duke of Harrington?”
Mama and Papa locked eyes.
Who? Mercy jumped from her seat and strode around the table. She snatched the card from Mama’s hand. It was true. The Duke of Harrington had sent her that massive bouquet. But why? She didn’t even know the man.
