Page 13 of As the Devil Dares

Mariah shook her head and reached for the cup of tea, to hold it between her trembling hands and take comfort in its warmth. “How can it? I’m being compelled into a season against my will at the hands of a horrible man.” One who apparently forced innocent cows into carriages and hordes of acrobats onto parish vicars. God only knew what that portended for her. “I’m caught. Either way I lose the partnership.”

Whitby’s face softened sympathetically. He knew how much that dream meant to her of being the next generation of Winslows to guide the business into the future, to have once more that feeling of closeness with her father that she’d experienced so long ago. But she also suspected, despite Whitby’s ever-present optimism, that he’d never truly expected it to come true.

“You don’t have to go through with this, Mariah,” he told her.

“If I don’t, I lose my allowance,” she reminded him quietly. “And if I lose my allowance…” She waved her hand at the old house around them. “Then Gatewell loses, too. And we cannot afford to lose a single farthing.”

“I’ll ask my father to—”

“No.” She affectionately squeezed his hand. “Your father has already been extremely generous.” The baron owned the building and let the school use it for free as long as they kept up the property. Without Whitby’s father, the school would have to relocate. But without her allowance, it would have to close completely. “This is my problem, and I’ll find a solution.”

Whitby’s boyish face turned uncharacteristically solemn as he popped one of the biscuits into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, his mind racing to solve her problem. That was what she loved most about Whitby. He was loyal beyond measure.

Mrs. Smith sat in the chair across the table from Whitby and reached for the bowl of dough, keeping her flour-whitened hands busy rolling out balls. And that was what Mariah loved most about Mrs. Smith—her unfailing belief that tea and biscuits could solve any dilemma. “You know, it might not be as bad as you think.”

“Because it might be even worse?” she sighed out miserably.

Mrs. Smith’s lips twisted into an expression of motherly disapproval. “You’ve never had a real season.”

“I’ve had six,” Mariah reminded her with chagrin.

“No, my dear.” She placed a ball on the sheet and pushed the bowl toward Whitby to once more get his help, although Mariah suspected it was done more to keep him from eating up all the biscuits that were already cooling. “You’ve never had a proper season. Not the kind you deserve.”

She countered defensively, “My seasons were just fine.”

“You had no invitations, no gowns, absolutely no suitors—”

“Thank you,” Mariah grumbled sardonically.

“And you deserve to have it all. To be Cinderella in the fairy tale.” Mrs. Smith gave a dreamy sigh. “Now you have the opportunity for a proper introduction, and under the guidance of a duchess, no less! A chance to meet all the most eligible gentlemen, attend all the best events, perhaps waltz with a duke—”

Mariah laughed at that.

“And what’s so amusing? A duke should consider himself lucky to dance with a beautiful lady like you.” When Mariah rolled her eyes, Mrs. Smith gently kicked Whitby under the table. “Tell her, Mr. Whitby, how beautiful she is.”

“What?” Whitby glanced up and blinked, startled from his own thoughts.

“Don’t you think that Mariah’s beautiful?” Mrs. Smith prompted.

He glanced at Mariah and blinked again. “Oh yeah, sure.” Then he reached for another biscuit.

Mariah smiled. Whitby, always true to form.

She took the biscuit from his fingers just as he was about to pop it into his mouth and broke it in two, then handed him half. He grinned at her and gobbled it down, while she nibbled slowly at her own half.

“And what’s the worst that can happen, truly?” Mrs. Smith placed the last ball on the sheet, then pressed a spoon gently down on each to flatten them. “At the very worst, you have a boring time. And at best…” She shrugged and pushed herself away from the table to carry the baking sheet to the oven. “You might find a husband.”

Mariah choked.

“Not if you don’t want to, of course, but one whom you love,” Mrs. Smith corrected quickly as Whitby slapped Mariah on the back as she coughed. “No one can force you into marriage against your will, not even your father.”

True. Although it certainly felt like it.

“But to meet a man whom you might actually want to marry…,” Mrs. Smith pondered gently, refilling her teacup. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

Whitby grinned. “Mariah get married? Now that’s a society event I’d pay to attend!”

Scowling, Mariah threw her biscuit at him. He caught it and popped it into his mouth.