“Your Grace, I was already doubtful about the idea of coming here to take tea with you and Her Grace, when her husband has only passed a month ago. It is highly improper. I should have listened to my instincts.”
Nathaniel drew in a long breath. He should’ve chosen someone else. Maxwell Stafford was far too prim and proper for this sort of undertaking. But he hadn’t wanted to wait. His original intention had been to start with Sir Franklin, but unfortunately, the gentleman had been out of town when Nathaniel first inquired. Not wanting to waste time, he had decided to begin his campaign as soon as his uncle had been buried.
He loathed to admit that Julian had been right—Evelyn’s lack of a proper mourning period had been a problem. A great many gentlemen he’d approached had declined, not due to lack of interest in Evelyn—indeed, the fact that she was a virgin duchess had seemed rather appealing to them, something that made Nathaniel’s stomach turn—but because of propriety. And propriety, it turned out, had become an obstacle.
So, he had taken what he could get. And what he could get was Stafford. Older than he would’ve liked, but sufficiently dull and non-threatening, qualities he thought would appeal to Evelyn.
He didn’t know her well, but what little he had learned told him she needed someone who wouldn’t be intimidated by her temperament; someone who would leave her be. Stafford had seemed like the perfect fit.
Yet the tea had gone badly. Evelyn had barely said two words between delicate sips from her cup. Stafford’s awkwardness was undoubtedly part of the problem.
“Stafford, old fellow,” Nathaniel said, “Her Grace is truly a lovely, refined young lady. If only you gave it a chance.”
“I have, Your Grace. And frankly, she is too young. Too vulnerable. The shock of watching her husband die before her has affected her deeply. You could see it in her eyes—she barely spoke. It was clear she was uncomfortable.”
Nathaniel pressed his lips together. He had been observing Evelyn closely the past week, and she did not seem like abrokenhearted widow. Her sisters had visited twice, along with her aunt, and the four women had taken tea in the garden, giggling and chatting as if Evelyn weren’t newly widowed. She had been far more talkative than she had been during tea with Stafford.
Perhaps Stafford had not been what she wanted. The trouble was, Nathaniel didn’t know what she wanted.
Shortly after they reached their agreement, he returned to Edinburgh to oversee the transfer of his belongings and to visit his mother and stepfather. He’d only been back a week, during which he had busied himself trying to line up suitors. Perhaps he had approached this all wrong. Perhaps he had been listening to what he wanted, not what she wanted.
But then again, what she really wanted was that house—and she couldn’t have it.
“Your Grace,” Stafford said, tearing him from his reverie. “Give my very best to Her Grace, and my condolences once more.”
Condolences once more?Nathaniel thought. When had he given them the first time? He had been present the entire time… except—no. He had stepped out briefly when one of the tenants had come calling. Had they spoken of his uncle’s death then? Was that what had soured the encounter?
He only hoped Stafford hadn’t said anything untoward, anything that might have led Evelyn to believe he’d be like his uncle. But that would be foolish.
He exhaled. “Very well. I shall see you at the club.”
“Indeed,” Stafford said before leaving.
Nathaniel returned to the drawing room where Evelyn still sat, sipping her tea, pinky finger elegantly lifted.
“Has the gentleman gone already?” she asked as he resumed his seat.
“He has.”
“And when am I to see him again?” she asked cheerfully. Where had the cheer been during their tea? Where had the sunny smile gone when it mattered the most?
“You will not. I’m afraid Lord Stafford is not interested.”
“Oh, what a shame,” she said. “I found him quite pleasant.”
“Yes, pleasant indeed,” he replied, arms crossing. “Tomorrow you will meet Sir Franklin.”
“Already?” she asked, eyebrows arching. “People will think me a cyprian, meeting gentlemen at such a pace.”
“People will think you are a young widow in need of a husband,” he corrected. “And I remind you not to forget our agreement.”
Her expression darkened. “I know our agreement very well. Now, Sir Franklin—what do I know about him?” She set her teacup down and gave him her full attention. Her eyes shimmered with mischief. How had this become her plan?
He wet his lips. “He was knighted ten years ago. Comes from a wealthy family with an estate in Dover. You would be comfortable there. He is an amenable fellow, interested in politics, though you will not be expected to speak to him on such matters.”
“Ah, yes,” she said dryly. “Because a woman could never possibly speak intelligently about politics.” She blinked at him. “I suppose she might make the gentleman feel foolish when he realizes she knows more than he does?”
“I didn’t say that. I only meant?—”
