Page 36 of The Lady Knows Best

“But you’ve just said you weren’t honest with Miss Grey. How do I know you are telling the truth now?”

His mouth pulled to one side as he considered the question. “I suppose you don’t. However”—with a nod of his head, he directed her attention to the people milling about the rooftop garden; there was little chance he and Daphne had gone unobserved—“I’d say we’re nearing the point in our courtship at which speculations give way to intentions, and your eldest brother, your sisters’ husbands, perhaps even your father, will soon be making some inquiries about mine.”

She squeezed shut her eyes, trying unsuccessfully to prevent a mental image of how that conversation would go. The distance between Dublin and London was an advantage, at least—though she’d never considered it one before. Papa would know nothing of it until it was too late. And Paris, normally so devoted to his business in the House of Commons, had stayed at his home in Berkshire this spring because of his wife Rosamund’s imminent confinement for the birth of their third child. But such a meeting, even if only with Gabriel and Tristan—she almost laughed aloud at the thought; it was like saying “being locked in a room with only a tiger and a bear”—would surely be bad enough.

“And if they are not satisfied with the answers?” she ventured, reluctantly opening her eyes.

He was looking down at her. “How old are you, Daphne?”

“One and twenty.”

The way he’d asked the question made her suspect he already knew the answer, and his crisp nod when she told him only confirmed it. “Old enough to decide for yourself, then.”

What exactly was she meant to be choosing between?

She’d thought she knew, but now, she was not quite so sure.

On the surface, he seemed to expect her to defy her family if they forbade the match—naturally, since that was the only way to keep her secret from being revealed. But beneath that, somewhere in that hidden layer she had only begun to explore, was he preparing himself to be rejected—again?

As if to confirm her suspicions, he turned, letting her arm slip free of his, so they were no longer touching, though they stood face-to-face and still closer than was proper.

“I am sorry if the quills weren’t quite the thing,” he said, with something like sincerity in his warm brown eyes as he looked down at her. “It seemed to me to be the sort of gift a writer would like.”

He thought of her as a writer. He wanted her to keep writing—though probably he would balk at an essay on rakes, if he ever learned of it. But still. She hadn’t even begun to think of herself as a writer. She’d certainly never expected it of Lord Deveraux . . . Miles....

Without conscious thought, she’d risen onto the balls of her feet, bringing them closer, almost close enough for a kiss. Just a swift, meaningless peck, perhaps on the cheek. Well, not meaningless. She wanted to express her gratitude for the gift. But not a kiss like the one in Lord Estley’s study. Nothing to leave a body breathless and yearning....

“Why, Miss Burke.” The woman’s voice came from behind her, near the doorway to the glasshouse, the hinge of which evidently had been oiled more recently than that of the entrance to the rooftop garden. “Fancy it being you.”

Daphne turned awkwardly, her lips still slightly puckered, to discover Lady Stalbridge standing in the entry, gripping the hand of her niece, Isabella. Both of them were wide-eyed, though Isabella’s attention was thankfully focused on the greenery and colorful blooms.

Out of the corner of her eye, Daphne saw Miles’s arms drop to his sides, as if he’d raised them, intending to put them around her.

Lady Stalbridge’s eyes flickered to the movement and back again. “As I just was saying to Mrs. Howard, between the reflection of the sun against the glass, and of course the steam”—she flicked open her fan and began to ply it against the humid air—“one can see figures moving in the conservatory, but it’s impossible to identify them to a certainty.”

Her meaning was clear: She considered herself as having saved Daphne from a near disaster of exposure.

Miles stepped sideways as far as the tight space would allow, managing to put almost a foot between them. “Miss Burke was just telling me about her sister’s travels to acquire some of these strange specimens.”

Lady Stalbridge looked around with a rather dubious expression before bringing her niece forward. “The duchess promised Isabella the sight of something frightful up here.” Isabella gave an eager nod.

“Oh,” exclaimed Miles, his face beaming with what could only be called pride. “I know what that is. If I may?” He held out a hand for Isabella’s, and the girl stepped forward and took it without hesitation.

“Lord Stalbridge is below, with Luca,” Lady Stalbridge explained. Luca was his nephew, Isabella’s younger brother. “The pair of them are vying in a three-legged race, with the duke and his younger son, and some of the others. I must say, the dowager duchess is surprisingly cavalier about the fate of her roses, given that half of the teams are sure to veer off track at one point or another.”

“The roses will fight back if they do,” Miles pointed out, with a wry smile and a glance toward Daphne that made her heart expand uncomfortably in her chest. “Now, let’s see . . . Where . . . ? Ah, yes.” He led Isabella unerringly to the Venus’s-flytrap. “A grown girl such as you needn’t worry about being eaten up by this monster,” he reassured Isabella, a dark-haired and quiet child of perhaps six, who giggled when he pointed to a plant only a few inches high. Miles picked up the pencil Daphne had used in her earlier demonstration and lowered himself to Isabella’s level, heedless of the dirt on the floor. “But as you’ll soon see, I think it’s for the best that you left your little brother below. . . .”

A smile crept across Daphne’s lips before she could stop it—but not before Lady Stalbridge had noticed. “Perhaps, Miss Burke,” she said, stepping close enough to link her arm with Daphne’s, a chiding look in her eyes, “you could show me something less bloodthirsty?”

A true rake would never sacrifice his dignity to please a child. That’s what Daphne had told herself, the night of the Clearwaters’ ball.

Did his willingness to amuse Isabella mean Miles wasn’t the rake everyone believed him to be?

Or did Daphne understand so little about rakes?

“I never meant for you to take your research quite so seriously, my dear,” said Lady Stalbridge, dropping her voice low enough that only Daphne could hear. “You must be careful not to be waylaid by his charms yourself. In fact, the sooner you’re done with this business, the better. Have the essay to me by the end of next week.”

Daphne nodded her agreement, her muscles taut with the effort of restraining herself from glancing over her shoulder.