The Raven Prince (Princes #1)(69)

“Are those bumblebees?” Miss Smythe bent down to peer closer at the purple embroidery, giving him a quite inappropriate view down the front of her dress.

No true gentleman would take advantage of a lady’s accidental exposure. Felix looked at the ceiling, at the top of her head, and finally down her dress. He blinked rapidly.

“Isn’t that clever?” she said, straightening again. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so pretty on a gentleman before.”

“What?” he wheezed. “Er, yes. Quite. Thank you again, Miss Smythe. One rarely encounters a person of such fine sentiment about fashion.”

Miss Smythe appeared a little confused, but she smiled at him.

He couldn’t help but notice how lovely she was. All over.

“You said you came for Mrs. Wren. Why don’t you wait in there”—she waved toward a small sitting room—“and I’ll go fetch Mrs. Wren from the garden.”

Felix stepped into the small room. He heard the pretty woman’s retreating footsteps and the close of the back door. He paced to the mantel and looked at a little china clock. He frowned and took out his pocket watch. The mantel clock was fast.

The back door opened again, and Mrs. Wren came in. “Mr. Hopple, how can I help you?”

She was intent on rubbing the garden loam from her hands and didn’t meet his eyes.

“I’ve come on an, er, errand from the earl.”

“Indeed?” Mrs. Wren still did not look up.

“Yes.” He was at a loss as to how to continue. “Won’t you have a seat?”

Mrs. Wren glanced at him in puzzlement and took her seat.

Felix cleared his throat. “There comes a time in every man’s life when the winds of adventure blow out, and he feels a need for rest and comfort. A need to toss aside the careless ways of youth—or at least early adulthood in this case—and settle down to domestic tranquility.” He paused to see if his words had registered.

“Yes, Mr. Hopple?” She appeared more confused than before.

He mentally girded his loins and labored on. “Yes, Mrs. Wren. Every man, even an earl”—here he paused significantly to emphasize the title—“even an earl needs a place of repose and calm. A sanctuary tended by the gentle hand of the feminine sex. A hand guided and led by the stronger masculine hand of a, er, guardian so that both may weather the storms and travails that life brings us.”

Mrs. Wren stared at him in a dazed way.

Felix began to feel desperate. “Every man, every earl, needs a place of hymeneal comfort.”

Her brow puckered. “Hymeneal?”

“Yes.” He mopped his brow. “Hymeneal. Of or pertaining to marriage.”

She blinked. “Mr. Hopple, why did the earl send you?”

Felix blew out his breath in a gust. “Oh, hang it all, Mrs. Wren! He wants to marry you.”

She went completely white. “What?”

Felix groaned. He knew he would make a hash of this. Really, Lord Swartingham was asking too much of him. He was only a land steward, for pity’s sake, not cupid with his golden bow and arrows! There was no other choice now but to muddle on.

“Edward de Raaf, the Earl of Swartingham, asks for your hand in marriage. He would like a short engagement and is considering—”

“No.”

“The first of June. Wh-what did you say?”

“I said no.” Mrs. Wren spoke in a staccato. “Tell him that I am sorry. Very sorry. But there is no possible way that I can marry him.”

“But-but-but…” Felix took a deep breath to quell his stutter. “But he is an earl. I know his temper is quite foul, really, and he does spend a good deal of time in mud. Which”—he shuddered—“he actually seems to like. But his title and his considerable—one might even say obscene—wealth make up for that, don’t you think?”

Felix ran out of breath and had to stop.

“No, I don’t.” She moved toward the door. “Just tell him no.”

“But, Mrs. Wren! How will I face him?”

She closed the door gently behind her, and his despairing cry echoed in the empty room. Felix slumped into a chair and wished for an entire bottle of Madeira. Lord Swartingham was not going to like this.

ANNA PLUNGED A trowel into the soft earth and viciously dug up a dandelion. What could Edward have been thinking when he sent Mr. Hopple to propose to her this morning? Obviously he hadn’t been overcome by love. She snorted and attacked another dandelion.

The back door to the cottage scraped open. She turned and frowned. Coral was dragging a kitchen stool into the garden.

“What are you doing outside?” Anna demanded. “Pearl and I had to half carry you up the stairs to my room this morning.”

Coral sat on the stool. “Country air is supposed to heal, is it not?”

The swelling on her face had gone down somewhat, but the bruising was still evident. Pearl had packed her nostrils with lint in an attempt to heal the break. Now they flared grotesquely. Coral’s left eyelid drooped lower than the right, and Anna wondered if it would rise again with time or if the disfigurement was permanent. A small, crescent-shaped scar was scabbed over under the drooping eye.

“I expect I should thank you.” Coral tilted her head back against the cottage wall and closed her eyes, as if enjoying the sunlight on her damaged face.