“They have only first met, Maryann.” He turned to face her, a hopeful expression on his face. “May I call you Maryann? I notice that Mayfield does.”
“Of course.”
He lifted her hand and kissed her white satin glove. “That makes me very happy, Maryann. I hope you shall call me Charles.”
“It will take some getting used to, Colonel Charles,” she teased.
His smile lifted his cheeks and brightened his eyes. He had dark hair, and she could see where a beard would be if he did not shave. She wondered if he shaved himself, as Timothy did, or if he had a valet do the job for him, like Lucas. “I hope that you will have all the time you need to grow accustomed, then,” he said.
He had not released her hand. “As I was saying, they have only just met. Perhaps the accord will not last, and he will realize his folly of the list after all.”
“Or perhaps it is love at first sight.”
“And that would upset you?”
Maryann let out a breath, embarrassed by her convoluted feelings. She didn’t have the words so she shook her head and looked away instead.
“I have lived a full life before meeting you, Maryann. I too have held affections and hopes with others. I can certainly take in stride your affection for a man as charming and handsome as Timothy Mayfield.”
To hear him call Timothy charming and handsome embarrassed her all over again. She had said far more than the colonel deserved to be burdened with. And yet he was so understanding. That is what she should be focusing her attention on—the kind man before her who had not pouted when she admitted having affection for Timothy and who did not have a list of shallow attributes against which he compared her and found her lacking.
She met his eyes and held his gaze. “Thank you for your understanding,” she said softly. “I am fortunate to have such a thing and do not take it lightly.”
He took a step closer and trailed a thumb across her jaw. His touch sent shimmering sparks down her back. “I have not had a chance to tell you how lovely you look tonight, Maryann. The pink of your gown brings out your eyes and the bloom of your cheeks.”
“It does not take much to bring out my cheeks. They are those of a chipmunk.”
He laughed and then kissed her lightly on each of those chipmunk cheeks, warming her to her toes. “I love them,” he whispered, and he slid his hand around her waist, gently encouraging her closer.
She offered no resistance, allowing herself to be drawn closer until only a few inches separated their lips and she could feel her heartbeat in her ears.
“I admire many things about you, Maryann, and I hope that eventually memories of our time together will chase all thoughts of Timothy Mayfield from your mind.”
This was exactly what she needed, complete distraction. She swallowed the unavoidable anxiety she felt so that all that remained was the longing. “How do you imagine to do that, Colonel Ber—uh—Charles?”
He answered her with a kiss that did, in fact, chase Timothy from her thoughts. Nothing could be more seductive than his acceptance. When he made to pull back from the chaste kiss he had initiated, she placed her hand at the nape of his neck and pulled him closer for a kiss that would chase away even more shadows.
Finally.
Timothy waited a polite distance outside the doors of St. George Church, trying not to bounce on the balls of his feet as he waited for Miss Shaw and her aunt to exit through the doorway. When they finally did, he positioned himself so he might catch Miss Shaw’s eye. Unfortunately, she kept her eyes demurely downcast while her aunt spoke to this person and then that one, and, oh, she mustn’t leave out that one. Timothy was near ready to run in circles before the two women finally made their way down the last of the steps. He moved to the right and, instead of trying to catch Miss Shaw’s eye, focused on the aunt. She smiled when she saw him.
He took the smile as an invitation and stepped up, then bowed. “Good morning, Mrs. Wallace,” he said, then turned to the vision of loveliness at her side. “Miss Shaw.” The blush on her cheeks was enthralling, and he looked forward to getting to know her better.
“Good morning, Mr. Mayfield,” Mrs. Wallace said. “Did you enjoy services?”
“I always do,” Timothy said, looking back at her.
She lifted her eyebrows in surprise.
“I usually attend St. James,” he said, “but I rarely miss a Sunday service.”
“Really,” Mrs. Wallace said, not quite believing him. “Single young men are a rarity in church these days.”
“Rare, but not extinct.” Timothy had always found church to be a soothing place. Even if it did mean he had to run home after all that sitting.
“One might wonder why you came to a different church today,” Mrs. Wallace said.
He grinned wider. “I hope one wouldn’t have to wonder too long.” He glanced at Miss Shaw again. “I was hoping I might walk Miss Shaw home.”
Mrs. Wallace shook her head at his cheekiness, but her smile remained, which led him to believe that he had read her correctly last night and again today. She was not a severe sponsor, nor had she already set her mind against a man without obvious means and distinction. Should his interest toward Miss Shaw continue, he knew questions about him would circulate their way through the ton and back to her, but for now she was allowing his attention, and he took that as a very good sign. He would tell both women the truth of his circumstances once he had approval from the one and affection from the other.
Mrs. Wallace looked at Miss Shaw. “If that is acceptable to you, Rachel, I shall walk with Mrs. Peters a short way ahead.”
“Yes, Aunt.” She briefly met Timothy’s eye and smiled shyly. It thrilled him to his toes.
Mrs. Peters was found in the milling crowd, a thousand greetings were exchanged between Mrs. Wallace and every other patron, it seemed, and then finally, Miss Shaw slipped her delicate hand onto his elbow and they began down George Street. Timothy measured his steps to provide adequate distance between themselves and Mrs. Wallace so that he and Miss Shaw could talk privately.
“It is very kind of your aunt to allow me this privilege,” Timothy said.
“Yes, it is,” Miss Shaw said.
“She lives here in London, does she not?” He could swear someone had told him that London was Mrs. Wallace’s primary residence, as opposed to those gentry who came to the city for the season, then returned to their country estates.
“Yes. My uncle, Mr. Wallace, was a banker here.”
“Have you stayed with her in London before?”
“When I was a child,” Miss Shaw said. “Twice.”
“And did you enjoy London on those visits?”
“I did. It is very different from my home.”
“In what way?”
She mentioned the open spaces of her country home and the minimal entertainments it offered, but did not expound overly much. She seemed quite nervous, but Timothy suspected she’d likely never conversed with a man one-on-one like this. He would need to be patient as she experienced so many new things. He forced himself to remain silent, waiting for her to ask a question, though it meant digging his toes into his shoes and biting his tongue.
After a lengthy silence, she finally spoke. “Do you retire to the country after the season each year, Mr. Mayfield?”
Thank goodness. “I do not,” Timothy said, shaking his head. “I stay here throughout the year.” He chose not to delve into the reasons behind his decision, and she did not ask. Another silence fell, and he said, “I love the energy of this city. There is always so much to do and see.”
“Is it not quiet come autumn?”
Timothy laughed and told her all the ways that London was never quiet. Perhaps not as bursting at the seams as when the season was on, but the bustle never really gave way. He hadn’t realized how much he’d gone on until he saw Mrs. Wallace say good
bye to Mrs. Peters in front of a lovely gray town house. Mrs. Peters continued on further down the street.
Timothy and Miss Shaw reached the town house a few paces later. He was disappointed that he hadn’t managed to learn everything there was to know about Miss Shaw during the walk. Now that he’d found her, he was eager to verify that she was indeed his perfect woman. What a relief it would be to no longer be on the hunt. He vaguely remembered feeling much the same way after meeting with Maryann that day in her drawing room, before going on to Norwich. He’d thought Maryann would put an end to his searching, then things had changed so drastically.
“Would you like to stay for tea, Mr. Mayfield?” Mrs. Wallace asked.
Timothy straightened and smiled widely. Oh, but the day just got better and better. “It would be my greatest pleasure.”
Mrs. Wallace laughed and shook her head as though delighted by his enthusiasm. Timothy glanced at Miss Shaw, and she smiled, which added another layer of sparkle to those lovely jade-green eyes.
Mrs. Wallace led the way into the house, speaking over her shoulder. “Rachel will have to show you her portfolio. She is a most exceptional artist.”
If it had been possible for Timothy to smile even wider, he would have. As it was, he could not think of a more enjoyable way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
Timothy had just exited a snuff shop with his friends Thursday afternoon, when he recognized a familiar figure a few shops ahead. He excused himself from the group and hurried forward, moving between other pedestrians on the street until he came up behind who he thought was Maryann. She turned to look at her companion—the elder Miss Callifour—and he was able confirm her identity. She wore the same lavender bonnet she’d had on during their walk through Hyde Park several weeks ago.
He moved forward so he was walking right behind her, matching her step for step so closely it would take very little for either of them to trip the other. Maryann’s back stiffened and her gait increased when she sensed the unexpected presence, but she didn’t look back. He sped up as well. Miss Callifour looked at him first, then smiled and looked ahead. Aha, he had support.
When Maryann finally turned her head to see who was invading her space, he dodged in the opposite direction and fell in step on her left side. She shifted from looking behind herself to side to side until she saw him, then she narrowed her golden-brown eyes.
“I should have guessed,” Maryann said, shaking her head and attempting to hold back a smile as the three of them walked together. “If ever there is a childish antic ensuing, one could put a solid wager on the fact that Timothy Mayfield will be involved somehow.”
Timothy grabbed his lapels and lifted his chin so he might strut with all the confidence of a rooster.
Miss Callifour laughed, and Maryann lifted her hand to her mouth as though to join her, except that she didn’t make a sound. Timothy realized he hadn’t heard Maryann laugh for some time.
“How are you this afternoon, Mr. Mayfield?” Miss Callifour asked him.
He leaned slightly forward so he could address the woman on Maryann’s other side. “Happy, healthy, and well-fed,” he said with a grin. “What more could a man want—other than the company of beautiful women like yourselves.”
She laughed again. Maryann rolled her eyes.
“And what brings you beautiful ladies to Oxford Street this fine day?”
Timothy was in this part of the city a great deal, not only because his rooms were off of St. James, but because all the best gentlemanly shops and clubs were located in this district—not that he could afford many of them. If not for his many friends who shared their connections, he’d be in the soup.
“I am purchasing some perfume for my mother,” Miss Callifour said. “And Miss Morrington wanted to stop in at Hatchers.”
Timothy looked at Maryann. “On Piccadilly? You’re making quite the circuit this morning.”
“It is not so far,” Maryann defended.
“And we are meeting Mr. Fetich at Gunters in between,” Miss Callifour added, though there was a bit of embarrassment in her tone.
“Ah, I see,” Timothy said, noting the way her cheeks pinked at the mention of the wily tradesman. Mr. Fetich was not forthcoming regarding his enterprises, but Timothy had heard it whispered and admired the man his ability to exist in both worlds. There was a time when Mr. Fetich had been rather attentive to Maryann; Timothy had not liked him so much then. Now that his interest was so squarely set upon Miss Callifour, however, Timothy had no complaint. “Might I offer my escort as far as the ices, then?” he said.
He met Maryann’s eye and winked. Miss Callifour’s mother was a rather strict woman, allowing for very few steps away from the middle of the road of propriety for either of her daughters. Meeting up with a young man in the middle of the day would be frowned upon. Having ices with a female friend, however, was an acceptable outing.
The trio made small talk as they continued to the confectioner’s shop. Mr. Fetich was standing outside and straightened when they appeared. Miss Callifour increased her pace to meet him, leaving Maryann and Timothy a few steps behind.
“They wish to be alone?” Timothy whispered to Maryann.
She nodded but said nothing further, though she was fiddling with the strings of her reticule.
“But then you would need an escort?” Timothy further surmised.
She hesitated, but then nodded. “Our plan is to enjoy the ices and then the three of us will go on to Hatchers. While I am in the store, they can have some time at Green Park, using my dawdling over books as their excuse.”
Timothy clicked his heels together and stood up straight. “Well, fancy my being the rescue, then.”
They reached the couple, and greetings were exchanged, and then Timothy took the lead on arranging the particulars: Mr. Fetich and Miss Callifour would sit at a table for three and enjoy their ices with Maryann’s reticule occupying what should be her place. In case anyone questioned the couple being alone, they could explain that Maryann had been distracted—only for a moment—by a friend and would return shortly. What young lady would leave her reticule if she were to be gone for a longer period of time?
Maryann’s coin purse went into Timothy’s pocket as easily as her hand rested at his elbow so that he might escort her to Hatchers, and then perhaps to Green Park to lengthen the escapade. For Timothy and Maryann to be seen together was entirely different than Miss Callifour and Mr. Fetich. Everyone knew Timothy was a great friend of Lucas Landsing, Maryann’s brother-in-law. As a friend of the family, he had greater margin.
“That was kind of you,” Maryann said as they left the couple and made their way to Bond Street that would take them to Piccadilly.
“Kind?” Timothy said, raising his eyebrows. “It was nothing of the sort. It was complete selfishness because now I have you all to myself.” He patted her fingers with his free hand.
She snorted, which he almost remarked upon, until he remembered having called her out on her laugh and how disastrous that had been. “You doubt my sincerity?” he said instead.
“Most of the time, yes,” she said, smirking at him.
He placed a hand on his chest. “I am wounded, Maryann.” It did prick him slightly that she would think he was being false, but since he wasn’t being false, he did not dwell upon it.
“I am glad to have you to myself,” he assured her. “It seems we’ve had little time together of late.”
“Indeed,” she said in a way that told him there was far more behind that word than met the eye. “And how is Miss Shaw?”
Timothy smiled again at the reminder of the blonde beauty so recently taking center stage of his dreams. “All that I could hope for,” he said. He told Maryann that he had managed to see Miss Shaw every day since Maryann’s introduction. He had to speak loudly to be heard over the clattering of wheels over cobbles, shopkeepers’ calls, and the usual bustle
of the shopping district.
Sunday tea had been lovely, if a bit formal, but it was only their second meeting, and her aunt had been there the entire time. Timothy had talked with Mrs. Wallace more than he had talked to Miss Shaw, but then Mrs. Wallace was an excellent conversationalist. He must have impressed her because Mrs. Wallace made no complaint to Timothy occupying most of Miss Shaw’s attention at a dinner party Monday night, and had even sent a footman to attend them on a walk yesterday.
“So you have found your paragon,” Maryann said after Timothy had finished his account.
“Perhaps I have.” His own hesitation to proclaim her the fulfillment of his list surprised him, but Maryann tended to draw things out of him that he would not discuss otherwise.
“Perhaps?” She looked at him. “I thought you believed you would recognize your perfect woman when you met her.”
“But having never met her before, I can’t be certain that my reaction wasn’t recognition, now can I?”
Maryann shook her head. “You are not convinced, then?”
“Not as yet,” he said in a philosophical tone. Then he shrugged. “But I am encouraged, and I have not yet found one reason why she wouldn’t be the woman I have always wanted.” The formality he felt between them was what stood in his way of proclaiming himself, even to a good friend like Maryann. He had only known Miss Shaw a few days, however. For all of Maryann’s accusations that he was shallow and had fantastical expectations, he took his search for a wife quite seriously. He would be certain of his choice before he made it, and with every passing week, he was more determined than ever to be wise.
“Well, I suppose you haven’t even known her a week yet,” Maryann said.
He turned to her in surprise. “That is just what I was thinking. What a relief for you and I to be of the same mind of something.”
“It is rather shocking, isn’t it?” Maryann teased back. He liked it when she played along with him.
“And how is your colonel?” It was good manners for him to ask even though his belly tightened at the memory of Colonel Berkins lifting her down from the carriage that day.
Daisies and Devotion Page 15