Page 69 of Miss Delightful
He rose, and the quality of his smile made Dorcas uneasy. A little too merry, a little too mischievous. “Dorcas dearest. I see the plans for the fellowship meal are all quite in hand.”
The dirty blighter was telling her that he’d snooped at her desk. Her unease was joined by annoyance.
“I hope so. The ladies always look very much forward to it.” She did not rebuke him for his familiarity, because that would only goad him to worse presumptions.
He took her hand in his. “Your fingers are cold. You’ve been out. Where do you go, dearest Dorcas? Do you go to the home of Major MacKay to see young John? Those pretty little posies are from somebody with the first initial A—as in Alasdhair? Is he grateful for your attention to the boy, or does he have another reason to send you flowers?”
Isaiah rubbed his thumb over the back of Dorcas’s hand, and the croissants she’d eaten with Alasdhair threatened to make a reappearance. Isaiah had either followed her on several occasions, or he’d had her followed, and he’d made enough inquiries to know exactly what was afoot with John.
She raised her voice, hoping Mrs. Benton lingered near. “I owe you no explanations, Mr. Mornebeth.”
His grip on her knuckles became uncomfortable. “I adore your spirit. I am endlessly pleased with your determination and intelligence, but, Dorcas, you must accommodate yourself to a future shared with me. You always knew I would return to London at some point. You declined offers from the hopeful widowers and spotty boys because you were doubtless waiting for me, even if you did not admit that to yourself.”
“I was not waiting for you. Never that.” She gave a violent twist of her arm—a move the ladies in jail had shown her—and she was free. “You presume much, Mr. Mornebeth, and unless you can comport yourself like a perfect gentleman, I will ask you to leave.”
His smile became a grin. “That fire, that lovely, raging fire… You can send me away, for now. Thomas has not yet given me permission to court you, because nothing must be allowed to interfere with Michael’s visit. In his usual fashion, Thomas both forbade me to commence courting you and intimated that he’d approve a match between us. Ever the diplomat, that’s our Thomas.”
Dorcas refused to yield to Isaiah’s tactics by edging away. “You will not disrespect my father under his own roof.”
“When a man disrespects himself, he invites others to do likewise. Tell me about MacKay. Was he one of the fair Melanie’s conquests?”
The door was only half closed, and a sharp rap heralded Mrs. Benton’s arrival with the tray. “I did not know you’d removed from the family parlor,” she said with every evidence of good cheer. “Shall I build up the fire?”
“A fine idea,” Isaiah said, just as Dorcas replied, “That will not be necessary.”
Mrs. Benton looked from one to the other.
“Mr. Mornebeth cannot stay long,” Dorcas said. “He was inquiring whether we have a more exact date for Michael’s arrival.”
Mrs. Benton set the tray on the low table near the hearth. “Any day. Vicar’s prayers are a constant stream of wishes for Master Michael’s safe arrival. Shall I show you out, Mr. Mornebeth?”
Mrs. Benton was trying to be helpful, but her offer resulted in Isaiah resuming his seat. “On a day this chilly, I will always make time for a spot of tea before braving the elements. Dorcas, if you would do the honors, and perhaps Mrs. Benton would build up the fire for us?”
His requests were rude, his willingness to sit uninvited in the presence of a lady was rude, but more significantly, these gestures werethreatening. They were intended to reduce Dorcas once again to the status of an inexperienced, unworldly girl, who lacked the guile and power to outwit an older, wilier opponent.
Even knowing his strategy for the blatant display it was, Dorcas did not see a means of extricating herself from his company. If she flounced out in high dudgeon, he’d retaliate. If she meekly obeyed, he’d be inspired to intimidate her again at the time and place of his choosing.
I’ve nonetheless had to make my peace with situations where all of my choices led to sorrow.
Dorcas’s own words came back to her. Isaiah Mornebeth excelled at creating such situations, and he’d also managed to ambush her, leaving her no time to plan countermeasures.
That would not happen again.
“The fire is adequate,” Dorcas said, taking the second wing chair. “Thank you, Mrs. Benton.”
Mrs. Benton gave a brief curtsey and withdrew, leaving the door three-quarters open. All the heat from the hearth would escape, but no matter. Dorcas might need to escape too.
“I like mine strong,” Isaiah said, “with plenty of milk and sugar, or cream if you have it. My grandmother likes cream in her tea, being a self-indulgent old dear.”
Dorcas poured the tea without checking its strength. She added milk and a dash of sugar—this was not Carlton House, for pity’s sake—and passed the cup and saucer to her guest.
He took a sip. “Not as strong as I prefer.”
A younger Dorcas would have apologized, taken his cup for herself, and let the pot steep until it suited his tastes.
“Go to blazes, Mr. Mornebeth. You trespassed against my youth and innocence years ago, and I have held my peace about your awful behavior. Disabuse yourself of the fiction that you can continue to rely on my discretion while behaving like a complete dunderwhelp.”
He set down his tea cup with alarming calm. “Dorcas, you deliver a very convincing scold, but tell me, who will believe that I played the villain with you on three different occasions? You had every chance to cry foul, to run to Papa and complain of ill treatment, but you acquiesced.You came to me willingly, all too happy to taste forbidden fruit. You saw reason then, and you will see reason now. Have some tea to settle your nerves.”
