Page 209 of From Rakes to Riches

“Do you play?”

“Only superficially. My mother was quite skilled. We used to make up silly ditties when I was a boy.” He hadn’t thought of those in years.

Miss Wingate smiled broadly. “About what?”

The words of one came back to him. “Frogs are slimy, and they eat flies. Birds are downy, and they just fly.”

She laughed, her eyes alight with mirth. “You were a true poet.”

“Why lie about such a thing when you were unflinchingly brutal about my abysmal humming?”

“Did I say it was abysmal?”

“You said something was abysmal, and since you compared me to a cat in heat, I think that’s probably accurate.”

“I did not say a cat in heat.” She held up her finger to make her point. “I said a cat inmourning.”

“I can’t decide which is more flattering.”

“Definitely the bereaved cat.” She turned back to the pianoforte and plucked out a few more notes. “Perhaps we can put on a musicale.”

“For those who can’t hear, I hope.”

She grinned. “We’ll make it for some indistinct future date. After we are wed.” She clasped her hands and faced him once more. “Did you make good progress on that front?”

Her comment about them both being married jolted him, for his initial interpretation was them married toeach other. As if his reputation wasn’t bad enough. What would the ton say if he wed his ward?

It didn’t bear consideration.

“Yes, I think so,” he managed, directing his mind to the question she’d posed. “I called on Miss Goodfellow, and we had a nice visit.”

Miss Wingate ran her slender fingers over the top of the pianoforte. “Does she play?”

“I don’t know. That topic didn’t come up. We mostly discussed the absurd war we just lost in America.”

“Did you? What an odd thing for a young lady to discuss with a suitor. Or so I’ve been led to believe.”

He snapped his gaze to hers. “Who told you that? It’s terrible advice. Don’t rely on the Fs for conversation.” He shuddered.

“The Fs?”

“Fashion, food, and flowers. It’s all most young ladies talk about. And the weather.”

“You won’t catch me discussing fashion. I can, however, wax rather effusively about Shropshire flowers. I tended a garden back home. What used to be home, anyway.”

Used to be.“You don’t think of it as home anymore?”

She exhaled and moved away from the pianoforte. “It’s difficult to think of a place as home when you don’t have family, and nothing really belongs to you. Home is solid and secure—permanent. I have felt rather transient in recent years. I suppose I still am.”

Tobias realized Horethorne was the place he recognized as home. He lived here and at Deane Hall, but his mother’s house, where he spent Yuletide and a few weeks in late summer, was where things felt most secure and…permanent. Which was why he’d never let it go.

He pivoted toward where she’d gone. “That’s a beautiful sentiment, albeit sad. I want you to feel at home here.”

She summoned a half smile. “I am as comfortable as I could possibly be. But this is temporary.”

“You do have family—your cousin and his wife. And Mrs. Tucket is somewhat like family, isn’t she?” The former maid had begun to assert herself as a kind of assistant housekeeper, much to Mrs. Smythe’s chagrin. If she didn’t stand down, Tobias was going to have to intervene. In fact, he should probably say something to Miss Wingate. Perhaps she could help.

“Yes, she is,” Miss Wingate answered. “My cousin and his wife, however, are not. We have never been close. Actually, I’ve only met his wife three, maybe four times in the three years they’ve been married.”

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