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Mary tilted her head. “It occurs to me that Albury—Frederick—coming to see us as he just did is, to put it mildly, a distinctly notable move. I can’t think of many gentlemen, finding themselves in his shoes, who would have even thought to make it. But he did. That suggests he’s truly focused his mind on how to win Stacie—which, in my view, is exactly what she needs. Given her dogged stance against marriage, the only happening that might shift her from it is being pursued—relentlessly—by a determined man.”
Felicia arched her brows. “One willing to do ‘whatever is necessary’ to win her?”
“Precisely.” After a moment, Mary added, “I have to say that I’m now feeling a great deal more hopeful that this might prove to be a truly excellent match.”
Sylvia sighed. “All we can do is keep our fingers crossed that Frederick can convince Stacie of that.”
Chapter 9
The next day was Sunday. Frederick consulted Mary’s list, then sent a footman to Green Street and, subsequently, drove his curricle around to fetch Stacie for a drive to Richmond Park.
The day was fine, with light fluffy clouds chased across a blue sky by a flirtatious breeze. They passed the journey chatting about, of all things, family—swapping anecdotes of their elder siblings, Frederick being the youngest on his side and Stacie being the youngest bar Godfrey on hers, with Frederick having older sisters while she had older brothers.
They arrived in Richmond in a lighthearted mood and discovered that the park wasn’t overly crowded; it proved an easy matter to find a suitable spot to spread a rug and enjoy the contents of the picnic basket Frederick’s cook had provided.
Stacie found herself relaxing far more than she’d anticipated—far more than she had in…she honestly couldn’t say how long. Being out of London, and although not precisely out of sight of the ton—there were other ladies and gentlemen about—certainly no longer under unremitting scrutiny, combined with Frederick’s unexpectedly charming and undemanding company made it easy to close her eyes, tip her face up to the gentle sun, and simply enjoy the moment.
And if she was aware that Frederick watched her closely, he didn’t seem exercised by anything he saw.
Frederick was, in fact, entranced by the glimpses he was catching of a less-serious Stacie. Over their previous encounters, she’d been focused, intent, passionate, and committed—driven. Or more recently, agitated, upset, and tense.
Now, when a pair of young fawns came investigating, wanting to snuffle up the crumbs of their repast, and he rose and waved his arms to shoo them off, Stacie dissolved into gales of laughter—ringing peals that fell on his ears like the music of angels.
He turned and stared at her—and found himself smiling, then laughing with her.
As he returned to the rug and slumped beside her in the sunshine, he felt something in his chest shift. He let his fingers brush her hand, felt an answering tremble in her slender digits before she stilled them, and smiled to himself and closed his eyes, content.
Later, he seized the moment of repacking the basket and folding the rug, then handing Stacie back into the curricle to touch her fingers, hold her hand, brush her back—taking advantage of all the little touches that were allowable between an engaged couple.
By the time he handed her down in Green Street and, retaining possession of her hand, walked her to her door, her nerves no longer leapt at his touch. Quietly satisfied with the day’s advances, he paused on the porch, raised her hand to his lips, and kissed her knuckles. “Thank you for your company and for a very pleasant day.”
Her answering smile was soft and sincere. “And thank you, my lord, for a delightful picnic. It was a lovely idea.”
He smiled, leaned closer, brushed his lips to her cheek, and whispered, “That’s for the old biddy across the street.”
He straightened, tipped her a salute, and left her with a smile on her lips and laughter in her eyes.
The following morning, Stacie found herself on foot in Hyde Park, amongst a good-natured crowd all jostling for the best position from which to watch the launching of the huge, yellow-and-red-striped-silk balloon that was slowly inflating in a roped-off square around which the crowd had gathered.
Courtesy of the three gentlemen ranged at her back, she suspected that she, in fact, had the very best position from which to view the balloon ascension. Frederick, having been alerted to the event by Percy and George, had arrived at her door with the pair and insisted she join them. When she’d admitted she’d never attended a balloon ascension before, nothing would do for them but that she don her bonnet and cape and accompany them into the park.
The stroll from Green Street to the clearing that the balloonists had selected for their exploit hadn’t taken long. They’d arrived just as the ropes to keep back the gathering crowd were being strung up, and George and Percy—apparently veteran balloon watchers—had leapt to secure what they’d informed her was a prime position. “We’ll be able to see all the preparations from here,” Percy had earnestly assured her.
Somewhat to her surprise, she’d found those preparations quite fascinating—and they were made even more so by Frederick’s deep-voiced murmurs in her ear, explaining the significance of what she was seeing. George and Percy also freely shared their knowledge, and she found herself relaxing in their undemanding company.
Eventually, with the balloon rising level with the treetops, the two balloonists paced back and forth, directing their assistants as they slowed the hot-air machine. Growing expectant, the crowd quietened, then everyone, the balloonists included, looked up, watching as the balloon swelled the last little bit, its rippling silk pulling taut until, finally, the wicker basket slung beneath the balloon lifted from the grass, and the balloon bobbed and tugged against the four thick ropes anchoring it to the ground.
That, apparently, was a signal of sorts. The machine cut off completely, and the balloonists rushed for the rope ladder hanging from the basket, while the assistants raced to and crouched beside the four mooring points of the ropes that, now, were all that was holding the balloon to earth.
The balloonists pulled in the rope ladder, shut and latched the gate into the basket, then peered over the sides.
“Release!” the elder balloonist roared, and the assistants furiously worked toggles, and the until-then-taut ropes eased, then ran free as the balloon slowly, majestically, rose.
A collective “Oh” of wonder wafted from the crowd.
“Wish us luck!” the younger balloonist yelled, and the crowd cheered and waved their hats.
Stacie held on to her bonnet as she tipped back her head and marveled at the sight of the gaily striped balloon rising slowly into the blue sky.
