Page 7 of If the Slipper Fits
Mrs. Jones dipped an elegant curtsy, marking her as a woman of gentle breeding. No surprise there. As a companion to a duchess, she would have to meet certain standards. But shehadseemed familiar to him. Perhaps they’d met in a social setting before she went into service—mayhap her family had fallen on hard times.
“Mr. Thurgood.” Her voice was low and melodic, and, again, familiar in a vague sort of way.
He waited for her to raise her face, to meet his eyes. When she didn’t, he chuckled under his breath, not so much amused as bemused. Last time he looked he hadn’t grown another head, yet the woman could barely stomach the sight of him.
Perhaps he misread reticence for shyness? That made more sense.
“Mrs. Jones, may I say it’s a pleasure to meet you. I half feared I’d imagined you—that is until Lady Wentworth confirmed your existence.”
He could swear Mrs. Jones slanted an accusatory glare at her employer. Not that he could see past her massive gray bonnet despite the fact the top of her head reached his collar.
She may as well have thrown down the gauntlet.
Challenge accepted. He’d bloody well wait Jones out. He squared his stance and barely resisted crossing his arms over his chest.
Seconds ticked by until either curiosity or politeness got the better of her. She adjusted her bonnet to a less downward slant and peeked up at him.
Those eyes. Like liquid pools of glowing amber.
“Have we…”met,he’d intended to ask, but his voice croaked like a lad’s who hadn’t yet reached puberty, for pity’s sake. He cleared his throat.
Mrs. Jones spoke as if he hadn’t uttered a word. “I’m gratified to see you much restored, Mr. Thurgood, was it? Thank you so much for your kind words. Completely unnecessary, I assure you.” She curtsied again—in dismissal?—and addressed her next words to her employer. “Lady Wentworth, shall I go in search of that scone?”
“No, indeed, Anna.” Lady Wentworth's tone had lost its gaiety.
Anna. He ran her full name over in his mind.Mrs. Anna Jones. Nothing pinged for him. But her voice, her eyes, herspirit. No doubt about it, he recognized her from somewhere.
“I see,” Jones murmured.
It seemed she did see, because she drew what appeared to be a bracing breath, then lifted her face to send him a shy smile. No, not shy. Anxious?
“I must admit, Mr. Thurgood, you gave us quite a scare this morning.”
His stomach dropped, and a bead of sweat formed on his brow then began a slow trickle down his temple. That voice. Heknewher.
Her smile vanished in a flash and her wispy dark brows beetled. She moved toward him, hands outstretched, as if to take his arm. In a blink she retracted her reach, but her evident angst remained. “Perhaps you should sit a moment, Mr. Thurgood?”
He did feel odd. Off balance and a tad breathless, in fact. Lingering effects from his earlier injury? Regardless of why, he hated admitting as much to the ladies—all right, to one in particular.
On the other hand, he could use this to his advantage. And wasn’t that his supposed modus operandi? Living for himself with nary a care for the rest of the world?
“I say. Don’t faint on us m’boy. Sit,” Lady Wentworth commanded.
Drawing a hand to his brow, he made a show of wincing. “I may have over done it. But, I couldn’t possibly take a seat from a lady. A moment, if you please.”
He didn’t wait for Jones to argue—somehow he knew she would—but went in search of a third, unoccupied chaise.
Moments later, he settled his lounger opposite hers. He aimed his most devastating smile her way.
She slanted him a suspicious look. “How fares your head now, Mr. Thurgood?”
“Throbs,” he lied, and just like that, her comportment softened. The woman had no future in poker.
“Anna, call one of the footmen for a lemonade.”
“An excellent notion, my lady.” Anna sounded nearly as authoritative as the dowager duchess. She eyed Caden, then threw a pointed look at his unoccupied chaise.
He dropped onto the lounger obediently.
