Page 91 of The Lady Knows Best

“No—but since when do you dispense anything but words of wisdom?”

“Since I chose to answer the letter from a young lady desperate for advice about how to persuade her parents she didn’t want a London Season.”

Miles shifted the baby slightly so he could lay a hand on Daphne’s shoulder. “You’re afraid you gave her the wrong answer?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t really give her an answer at all. I told her all the usual things—that she must be guided by her own sense of the matter. She knows herself better than anyone. That if a husband was wanted, he might just as well be found elsewhere. That sort of thing. And then I added that if she opened herself to the experience, she might surprise herself—might be surprised at what she discovered. As I had been.”

“Ah. Miss Busy B. doesn’t usually refer to her personal experiences.”

“Not often, no.”

“I don’t see the harm,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “Experience is one of the things that produces wisdom, and isn’t that one of the goals of the magazine?”

“Yes, of course. But I—”

“And giving a young woman ample information to help her make her own choice seems to me perfectly consistent with Miss Busy B.’s philosophy.”

A blush of pleasure and pride lit Daphne’s cheeks. “I hope so. But then I got to thinking of the young ladies I’ve known who were genuinely miserable during the Season.... Vivi, for example.”

He might have guessed that the Duke of Raynham’s bluestocking sister wasn’t one for the mindless social whirl of Town. “Speaking of Lady Viviane, there’s a letter from Hawesdale Chase in the stack.”

The pages of the magazine fanned shut, and Daphne began to shuffle through the post once more. “Here it is.” She broke the seal with eager fingers. “I hope everything is all right.” He watched as she scanned the page. “Oh, baby Izzy has begun to toddle around after her brothers . . . she’ll soon be leading them into trouble, I’m sure.” She paused to read a few more lines. “Vivi sounds genuinely happy to be a maiden aunt—says she’s taking on a new project, a charitable endeavor . . . oh.” Daphne sank into the chair behind her, so distracted she nearly missed the seat.

“Is something amiss?”

She stared a moment longer, then raised her gaze to him, her eyes wide and bright. “Just the opposite. Vivi wants her name put down as a subscriber to my new book, and she’s offering . . .” She gestured weakly with the letter. “It’s enough to send the book to press.”

Publishers had been so wary of the radical theories Daphne espoused in her educational treatise that they had shied away from buying the manuscript. Miles believed in the book and would gladly have borne the expense of printing it, but Daphne had insisted on doing it herself, by going the more old-fashioned route and raising subscriptions among the well-to-do.

The subscribers’ names would appear in a list inside the book, as a sort of stamp of endorsement of Daphne’s ideas. Both Lady Stalbridge and Mrs. Goode—though Miles suspected they were one in the same person—had put their names down. But Daphne had sedulously refused to allow her sisters, or her husband, to give enough to fund the project outright. Instead, she had reached out, with endless letters and even visits, to those whose notorious skepticism would lend the book credibility. It had seemed, at times, as if the project would never see print.

“She also offers to write a preface,” Daphne went on, once more studying the letter, “drawing on her own childhood experiences with a string of governesses and explaining why she supports my ideas. She wouldn’t do it just for me, you know.” She glanced up, and he glimpsed tears of joy sparkling in her eyes. “She wouldn’t put her name on something she didn’t believe in.”

“Of course not,” he agreed, bending to kiss her. “We all believe in you.” Geoffrey Alistair joined in with a well-timed burble.

Daphne laid the post aside and took the baby back. “I don’t deserve all this happiness. Is it dangerous, do you think—tempting fate, perhaps—to have too many marvelous things happen at once?”

“I hope not,” he answered with a laugh, “because if it is, I’m at far greater risk than you.” He began to stuff her papers, including Lady Viviane’s letter and the magazine, into the little satchel Daphne carried back and forth between her desk in the library and the one in the cottage. “But just to be safe, I’d better not tell you the other piece of news.”

“Miles!” she demanded, thrusting out her lower lip.

“Now, what sort of example would I be setting,” he said with a nod toward the baby as he tucked the satchel beneath his arm and ushered his wife toward the door, “if I simply indulge you every time you pout?”

On the threshold, she rose up on her toes and whispered into his ear, painting a delectable picture of all the ways in which she intended to indulge him as soon as they were back in the house and their son had been safely deposited with the nursemaid.

“That’s hardly fair,” he protested.

Her lips quirked in a naughty smile. “I know.”

“Very well,” he said with an indulgent sigh, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Palmer told me when he dropped off the post that the school building in the village will be finished by the end of the week, and that the final crate of supplies was delivered to his sister just this morning. Stroke of genius, your putting Miss Palmer in charge—the children will love her.”

“Yes,” Daphne agreed immodestly, “but I’m not sure your grandmama will ever forgive me for luring her companion away.”

“Perhaps not, especially given that the last three women she interviewed for the post have steadfastly refused to read Robin Ratliff novels aloud.”

Daphne laughed, the most marvelous, musical sound in the world. “She needn’t worry about that. I’d be more than happy to read to her in the evenings.”

“Are you certain? Your sensibilities won’t be overwhelmed by those scandalous tales of erotic adventure?” he asked, lifting his brows.