Page 13 of Miss Dignified
“I would be considered a bad match for you.” Mrs. Lovelace stirred honey into her tea. “Some would say a disastrous match. Former officers do not marry their housekeepers.”
“They do, actually, if that former officer is not titled or particularly well placed. I am gentry, albeit comfortable gentry, and Welsh. Welshmen are expected to take odd notions. Then too, I want to create merely a suspicion of tender regard between us.”
Mrs. Lovelace sipped her tea, and that she hadn’t dumped Dylan’s tea over his head or laughed him to scorn was most encouraging. But then, she wasfondof him. She would not lie about that, or about much of anything.
“Your objective,” she said, “is for your sisters to think they have divined a secret you are almost keeping from yourself, that you pine for me at the same time you try to ignore the inclinations of your heart. If they think they have stumbled upon such an insight, an unlikely romance waiting to blossom, they will shove us together.”
Dylan could not have summarized the strategy more succinctly himself. “Do you have sisters?”
“I have a mother. A devoted and dear mother.”
Was an aging mama Mrs. Lovelace’s entire family? Dylan did not like to think of Lydia so alone in the world, but a dearth of caring family might account for her indomitable attitude.
Also for her kindness toward lame soldiers and stray kittens.
“If this budding attraction is my sisters’ idea,” Dylan said, “then they will see it as a brilliant stroke against the dictates of foolish conventions. If I were simply to announce that I had decided to marry my housekeeper, they would mutter without end about my having ruined their own marital prospects.”
“Will it?” Mrs. Lovelace asked. “If I’m caught gazing at you with unrequited longing, and our hands brush, and all that other foolish whatnot, will that start the sort of talk that could affect your sisters?”
“Who will talk? My staff is loyal, as are, in their way, my sisters. I am not suggesting you stand up with me three times in succession at Almack’s.” Though Dylan would like to see his housekeeper turned out in some elegant French creation, giving polite society the sort of looks she reserved for dusty mantels and tarnished mirrors.
While turning on him the same looks she’d given those dratted kittens and not the pensive frown she was treating him to now.
“Show me your best worship-from-afar, brooding-bachelor look, Captain. Make it convincing, or this strategy of yours is more doomed than any romance ever could be. Pretend you are fond of me.”
She arched an eyebrow, and Dylan was reminded of the pervasive terror of a parade inspection. A missing button would see a man shamed, a weapon out of place could see him flogged.
A fatuous gaze would not do for Mrs. Lovelace, she was right about that. Dylan had to give her something convincing, but mere desire would be an insult. Besides, desire hadn’t much plagued him in recent years, another matter to be pondered when he was once again gazing upon the magnificence of the Welsh hills.
What he felt for Lydia Lovelace was certainly respectful, also a little awed. She was formidable and distant, like those gorgeous, magical hills. She held herself aloof by means of her personal dignity, and her caps, and her devotion to some list of duties only she knew. Dylan seized on that sense of distance, of unbridgeable separation, and let her see a hint of his longing to return to Wales, of his weariness.
She returned his regard steadily, and something in her eyes answered him, something hopeful but weary. Dylan had the thought that they were bothlonely—God above, was he lonely—and so he turned his mind to a wish for her, that her loneliness might find comfort, that someday her list would include a few kisses and smiles, or at least a fond glance and a hug or two.
The silence in the breakfast parlor became laden with odd currents, and some idiot bird thumped again against the windowpanes.
“That will do,” Mrs. Lovelace said, though softly, with none of her characteristic starch. “You bring to the exercise a convincing subtlety I had not anticipated.”
Did she think he’d take to reciting maudlin poetry beneath her window? “I will be very subtle, the better to be very convincing. Once my sisters realize I am already in contemplation of a union with you, they will content themselves with shopping and terrorizing the eligibles.”
“They are well dowered?” Mrs. Lovelace asked. “In my experience, if a lady’s settlements are ample, she is beset by the eligibles and fortune hunters alike.”
And when had a housekeeper occasion to learn such a thing? Dylan made a note to look over the references the employment agency had provided for Mrs. Lovelace.
“My sisters are not heiresses, but their portions are generous. What is your favorite flower, Mrs. Lovelace?”
“Irises. The scent is delicate, and they don’t last long, but they are impressive.”
“What do they symbolize?” A devoted swain would know this, while Dylan hadn’t a clue.
“Valor and wisdom. What is your favorite flower, sir?”
He hadn’t one, but needs must… “Roses?”
“Trite.”
Exceedingly. Even a mostly-for-show interest in Mrs. Lovelace deserved a better effort than that. “Daffodils?” Wales was full of them, and they were dauntless, rather like Mrs. Lovelace.
“Chivalry and new beginnings. That suits you. If you will excuse me, I will see about preparing some menus suitable for when we have guests. Good luck finding William Brook. I have cleaned out the governess’s room for Bowen. He strikes me as capable of serving in the capacity of house steward.”
