Marquesses at the Masquerade(115)
Miss Fletcher’s handiwork at its subtle finest. Give the young ladies choices, she’d said, and they’ll learn to exercise independent judgment.
“I haven’t much sense of fashion,” Tyne replied, “but you’re correct. I am capable of making an adequate selection.”
“The sapphire.” Amanda dropped Sylvie’s hand. “It brings out the blue in your eyes.”
Tyne would have chosen something more subdued. “The sapphire it is, a gift from your dear mama, like the two of you.”
“Mama would want you to be happy,” Sylvie announced with such conviction that Tyne suspected it was a rehearsed conclusion, or one supplied by Amanda.
“I am happy.” That approached telling his daughters a falsehood, though one kindly meant. Tyne was grateful for his life, he was abundantly blessed by good fortune, he was hopeful… But happiness had eluded him for a long time.
“Happy like when Mama was alive,” Amanda said. “We think you should marry Miss Fletcher.”
Pain stung Tyne’s chest as he stabbed himself with his sapphire pin. “Blasted, dashed, deuced,”—Sylvie’s eyes grew round—“perishing, dratted, infernal,”—Amanda was grinning—“accursed, wretched, damn.”
“Papa said a bad word.” Sylvie was ecstatic.
“He was overset,” Amanda crowed, quietly. Tyne’s daughters were ladies.
He assessed himself in the mirror. No blood, which was fortunate for his valet’s nerves. “I am not in the least overset. I am ambushed by a pair of…”
They’d gone serious at his severe tone, watching him with the same wariness he used to feel toward his own children, before Lucy Fletcher had joined the household and made a family of them.
He knelt and opened his arms. “I’ve been waylaid by a pair of insightful young ladies who take my welfare very much to heart.”
Sylvie barreled at him full tilt, while Amanda graciously permitted herself to be hugged. Tyne reveled in their embrace, and to hell with wrinkled linen, being late for dinner, and admitting his aspirations to his children.
When he turned loose of his daughters, Sylvie went skipping around the room. “You have to woo Miss Fletcher, Papa. Bring her flowers and steal kisses.”
“And give her chocolates,” Amanda added with an earnest nod. “She liked the French chocolates.”
At Amanda’s urging, Tyne had given Miss Fletcher chocolates at Christmas, months ago. “Excellent suggestion. What else?”
“You should read to her,” Sylvie said, tripping on the carpet fringe, then skipping in the opposite direction. “She always reads to me, and she loooooves books.”
“Do you think she’d enjoy my rendition of Norse fables?”
“I think she’d enjoy your version of anything,” Amanda said. “You’re handsome, kind, and intelligent. Do you know how to kiss, Papa? The uncles might have some ideas how to go about it.”
“Your mother took care of that aspect of my education.” Bless her for all eternity.
“Then,” Sylvie said, climbing the steps and bouncing onto Tyne’s bed, “when you’ve brought Miss Fletcher chocolates, and read to her, and vowed your every lasting devotion, you ask her to marry you!”
Amanda sent her papa a grown-up smile: everlasting.
“Such a campaign will take time,” he said. “You must not say anything to Miss Fletcher or to the staff. This will be a family undertaking. Are we clear?”
“Because,” Sylvie said, leaping from the bed, “it’s personal.”
Tyne set the sapphire cravat pin back in his jewelry box. “Exactly. Very personal, and there’s no guarantee I’ll be successful.”
“But you won’t muck it up, will you, Papa?”
He chose another cravat pin, this one more subdued, also unlike any he’d seen in London ballrooms or house parties in the shires.
“If my objective is to ensure Miss Fletcher’s happiness, then success is assured. My regard for her is such that I truly do want her happiness above all things, though my hope is that marriage to me will fulfill that aim.”
“What’s that?” Sylvie said, peering at his cravat pin.
“My lucky cravat pin,” Tyne said. “This stone is very rare, coming from only one area of Derbyshire. It’s called Blue John and found nowhere else in the world.” The color was halfway between lavender and periwinkle, the stone a cross between marble and quartz, subtle rather than sparkly, and unique.
“Why is it lucky?” Sylvie asked, crowding in beside him at the vanity.
“Because Miss Fletcher gave it to me for Christmas.” A highly personal gift, from the lady’s home shire. She’d blushed when he’d thanked her, another precious rarity. He rose and beheld himself in the cheval mirror. “Will I do?”
“You’re merely dining at Aunt Eleanor’s,” Sylvie said. “You don’t have to be fancy for that.”
“You look splendid, Papa.”
Tyne did not feel splendid, but he felt alive. Ready to take on challenges and woo at least one lovely damsel, if she was willing to be wooed. If she wasn’t, he’d make a gentlemanly effort to change her mind. Mr. Captain-Come-Lately from Portugal would have to find some other English rose to plant in his Portuguese vineyard.