The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(40)

She clasped her hands together and stared at them. “Thank you. That’s very kind. Please don’t worry about me. I’ll take care of my own needs. My sisters”—she cleared throat—“and I appreciate all you and your family have done for us. For the first time in years, my family is safe and genuinely happy.”

Much like he’d touch a skittish filly, he gently tilted her chin with one hand and forced her to look at him. “I want to afford you the same courtesy. I understand you only ordered two dresses. You’ll need additional gowns with the busy social schedule Mother has planned. You’re not still intent on altering your grandmother’s gowns, are you?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “There’s no need to worry. Faith and Julia offered to help me. They won’t allow me to dress in anything that would be embarrassing to you or your family, I promise.”

“You’d never embarrass me.” Her stubbornness bordered on foolishness. Her dress, an elegant ivory satin trimmed with crimson ribbon, proved his point. He considered whether this was a silly game, but dismissed it. March was always straightforward even when he confronted her about embezzling the trust money. “Still, I insist you let me help. I want this to be special for you, too.”

Her face was as still as the newly fallen snow. Finally, she smiled, and the cold drafts that swirled around them seemed to calm. “I appreciate the sentiment. But I need to save money—”

“March.” He released a frustrated sigh. The blasted woman insisted on this nonsensical idea of finances. He had the money to help her and her family. He and William had gone through a generous budget that would have little impact on his investments or finances. They’d even sought their mother’s council on it, and she’d been stunned at his generosity. “Why are you so adamant about this?”

She seemed somewhat sheepish. “I worry about the future for Bennett and me. I need to be certain that there will be enough so his estate doesn’t suffer. You’ve never had to experience the distress of looking at accounts and bills and wondering—”

“It’s not your worry anymore.” If anything was more certain than the sun rising, it was his complete wonderment at how to make sense of bills and accounts.

She smiled as if to appease him. “Thank you, Michael.”

The sound of his name from her lips made his stomach twist into endless somersaults. Surprisingly, the effect was quite pleasant. Still, he wasn’t convinced she really believed him or even trusted him.

“You’re welcome. May I escort you to the family quarters? I need to go home before Donar decides he’s had enough of the snow for the evening.”

As they walked, he slowed his pace to have as much time in her company as possible without being too obvious. At the bottom of the steps to the family quarter, she studied his face with the most delightful smile. “Isn’t Donar the name of the Norse god of storms?”

McCalpin leaned close enough that he caught her sweet lilac fragrance. His senses went on alert as every particle of his being became aware of her as a woman—one his body wanted.

“He doesn’t like to get wet,” he offered with a lift of one eyebrow.

She laughed, and the rich throaty sound was something he could easily grow accustomed to—every night.

“Good night, Michael.” She turned and headed up the stairs.

“Good night, March,” he whispered. God only knew how he would survive this guardianship.

And her.

*

March entered her bedchamber where a warm fire blazed in the fireplace. She marveled at the extravagances bestowed upon her and her family. The amount of wood in the fireplace would have kept Lawson Court’s kitchen warm for three days.

She kicked off her slippers and looked with longing toward the bed. All hints of sleepiness disappeared when she saw four large boxes tied together with an exquisite black satin ribbon.

She approached the bed gingerly, then chided herself. A ribbon with an attached card from Mademoiselle Mignon’s shop hung from the top box. A footman had obviously made a delivery mistake. The packages must belong to one of her sisters. She reached to remove the boxes from her bed when the card stole her breath.

Addressed on the folded piece of vellum was her name. The signature unmistakably Michael’s. She should know as she’d practiced it for nearly a week before she’d summoned enough courage to write her first embezzling letter to his solicitor.

Carefully, she broke Mademoiselle Mignon’s seal, then read the note.

Dear March,

I couldn’t resist when I saw this beautiful fabric. The other items were hand selected by the duchess. Trust me, she has excellent taste. I want you to feel as if tomorrow night is the introduction to society that you missed so long ago.

I’ll be looking for that lovely girl. Your undeniable beauty will enhance the splendor of the fabric.

Don’t.

I can hear you denying it now. Please for both of our sakes, let yourself dream of more than your sheep. Tomorrow night, set yourself free.

I want to dance with you in this dress. My only condition is that I pick the time.

Yours,





M


March carefully untied the ribbon and folded it neatly. When she opened the first box, she inhaled sharply. Inside, a silk chemise and the faintest pair of pink clocked stockings lay nestled in exquisite rose-scented paper. Accompanying the stockings were the softest silken ties she’d ever seen.