How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(10)
After a bout of illness, she’d been stronger of late, less fatigued and eager to spend part of every day out of doors. This evening marked her first social outing in months.
And she was right. He owed their host his full attention.
In truth, he owed Sir Eliot Morgan’s daughter, Jane, more than he could ever repay. He’d come to her father for elocution lessons the year he’d left Whitechapel, determined to shed his Cockney dialect. In Sir Eliot, he’d found a mentor and friend, and Jane had proved an excellent conversational partner, allowing him to practice his polished pronunciation. She’d also befriended Sara. After Sir Eliot’s death, remaining friendly seemed the natural course. Lately, however, the demure spinster had developed a terrible habit of flushing to a feverish crimson whenever he was near. She also sang poorly, in a pitch that clashed with her cousin, Dorothy, who accompanied her on the piano.
Out of loyalty to the late Sir Eliot, Gabe lifted his head and offered Jane an encouraging grin.
“Much better,” Sara praised under her breath. “Look, she’s blushing now.”
She was, and Gabe wished he could ascribe her high color to the overheated room rather than a blooming infatuation he had no interest in encouraging.
“Have you considered asking her to marry you?”
Gabe choked on the sickly-sweet cordial he’d been sipping from a ridiculously tiny crystal glass. “Never, and don’t you dare put the thought in her head.”
“I’m content putting the notion in yours.” Sara set down her teacup and offered Miss Morgan a round of hearty applause as she finished one song and launched into another. “She’s respectable, polite, mild mannered. Everything a man might wish for in a wife.”
Indeed, she was. If he’d made a list of qualities a bride should possess, Miss Morgan would tick every box. Unfortunately, she didn’t interest him in the least. Nothing about Miss Morgan moved him. Not a single part of him. There was also the matter of her being the daughter of a baronet. Despite their long friendship, he wasn’t at all certain Sir Eliot would have encouraged his suit.
“It’s time for you to marry. I can’t bear the thought of your being alone.” Sara worried a great deal about his being left on his own after she married.
“I can’t afford a wife yet.” He lightened his tone, forcing his mouth to curve in a smile.
She planned to marry a young man she’d met by chance in a coffee shop, a young law clerk who had the good sense to become smitten with her. What she didn’t know was that Thomas Tidwell had come to Gabe soon after, explaining his desire to further his legal studies and inquiring about the possibility of a dowry.
Gabe was hesitant to discuss the matter bluntly with Sara, for fear she’d believe Tidwell’s intentions weren’t pure. Yet Sara had always been the practical one. Her good sense had stretched a few shillings into weeks of food. When their mother disappeared for days, she’d been the one to bring in wages to keep a roof over their head. Sara’s sensible, hardworking nature had kept them alive.
After a few more sips of tea, she leaned closer. “I thought you planned to speak to Mr. Ruthven about higher wages.”
“I need to find the right time.”
“Now or never, I always say.” Sara viewed time differently than Gabe. She was impatient, eager for life to proceed, never willing to wait.
He reached for her hand and promised, “I’ll speak to him tomorrow.”
“And once you’re earning enough, you’ll get yourself a wife?” Sara gripped his fingers fiercely. “Promise me you will.”
“I’ll begin considering matrimony. Will that do?” He gave her a reassuring squeeze. “I suspect searching for a bride won’t be a simple matter.” Ladies weren’t lining up at his office door, after all. And even if a fetching one appeared, she would judge him based on the gentleman he’d spent years trying to become.
What if the day came when a lady he courted discovered the creature he’d once been?
“Nonsense.” Sara released his hand and nudged her chin toward Miss Morgan, whose voice cracked as she hit the song’s crescendo. “Finding a wife will be as easy as allowing yourself to see what’s been in front of you all along.”
“Why have you planted yourself over here in the corner?”
Clary looked up from the notes she’d been making in her journal as Helen approached, bearing ruby-hued punch in dainty cut-crystal vessels. Phee and Kit had invited a few friends to her birthday dinner, and the crowded drawing room was filled with pleasant chatter interspersed with laughter.
Clary had indulged too freely in sweet wine and dessert. “I think the seed cake did me in, and I fear they’ll start in with music and dancing soon.”
“I thought you were fond of music.” Helen passed Clary a cup before settling next to her. “Sitting together like this reminds me of Rothley’s autumn dances.”
“We did all of our best plotting while sitting along the wallflower wall.”
Helen cast her gaze at the open notebook in Clary’s lap. “What are you plotting this evening?”
“Employment and where I might seek a position. I’m also working up an estimated budget of expenses. I wish to secure my own lodgings as soon as I’m able.”
“I’m glad you’ve shifted from misery to plotting.” If Helen was worried Clary’s change in fate would affect their plans for Fisk Academy, her expression revealed none of it.