The Lie and the Lady (17 page)

“Be that as it may,” Leticia said loudly, interrupting. “Men do not blush as readily as women. That is simply how it is. But there are other ways to be certain of a man's regard.” She paused. “And ways to increase a man's regard.”

Margaret's eyes were wide, as if Leticia were revealing the secrets of increasing an orchard's yield threefold. “I have a hypothesis as to what it is.”

“By all means, tell me.”

“In this scenario, we meet entirely by chance in a public place. Possibly market day or church. And then while in conversation with someone else entirely he'll come up to me and . . .”

“Yes . . .”

“I press a hand to my forehead . . . and I faint.”

“What?” Leticia cried. “No!”

“But . . . I was told that fainting, when done right, is a way to attract a man.”

“Whoever told you that is a fool,” Leticia replied.

“Oh . . .” was the only sound that came out of Margaret's mouth, small and broken. Immediately, Leticia reached out her hand to cover Margaret's. But the girl just shifted out of reach.

“Perhaps fainting worked once for your friend, but it is not something that works for ninety-nine out of a hundred. It's terribly hard to do without looking like it's faked, and that just makes the man think of the lady as possibly ill. No man wants a woman who is ill, not matter how romantic the books make it seem.”

“Really?” Margaret's eyes were still downcast. Leticia suspected there was something slightly watery about them. But really, if she went and fainted in front of Turner—crumpled to a heap in front of him, because goodness knows she would not have the elegance to swoon with grace—then it was very likely he would act, and then Margaret would really be in his thrall.

So she softened her voice, and held up her hands.

“Look at me. I have never in my life fainted, and I do not intend to ever do so. And certainly will not in front of any man.”

Margaret looked up, one suspicious eyebrow raised.

“And I've still managed to attract two very eligible husbands . . .” Leticia let the idea hang in the air. “But by all means, if you think fainting is the right course of action, shall we implement it in the churchyard next week?”

Margaret chewed that over for a few seconds. Leticia counted in her mind. Three . . . two . . . one . . .

“Just for the sake of argument, what would your suggestion be?”

Leticia tried very hard to not smile like a cat that got the cream.

“Ignore him.”

Margaret jerked back. “Ignore him?”

“Yes. Assiduously avoid him. If you seem him in Helmsley, barely glance his way. At church, no more than a nod. And never invite him to view your gardens, or to take tea with us.”

Margaret's brows were a pyramid of skepticism. “I thought you said that if I wanted to make him like me I needed to spend time with him.”

“It's not about making him like you. It's about making him think about you. He will see that you are utterly uninterested in him, and he will be mad with curiosity trying to figure out why. All men think of themselves as inherently interesting. So interesting that we poor women cannot help wanting to be in their presence.”

For young ladies skilled at flirtation, this was actually a well-used tactic. But as Margaret was not skilled at flirtation, it was doomed to failure. Not to mention, Turner would barely give the girl a second thought. “You can even show interest in other men—that would really set his blood to boil.”

“What other men?” Margaret asked, her nose wrinkling.

She put her chin in her hand, pretending to think. “Perhaps eligible gentlemen in Helmsley are thin on the ground, but there must be some of your acquaintance . . . Usually young ladies take a trip to London for cultivating said acquaintances.”

Margaret, deep in thought, still managed to shake her head decisively. Well, it really had been too much to hope for, but she'd had to try.

“Regardless, if you ignore him, he will spend ages trying to figure out why, and then his mind will be consumed with you. So much so that he will be unable to stop himself from approaching you. Wherein you ignore him again, and again . . . until he professes his love for you.”

That bit might have been pushing her luck, but Margaret seemed to absorb everything she said.

“For how long? Do I ignore him, I mean.”

“For as long as it takes,” Leticia answered with determination. “It might take a week, it might take a month . . . it might take several months. But if you hold tight to your resolve, it will work. He will come to you. And . . . he will be blushing when he does so.”

“Has it . . . has it worked for you?”

Leticia's grin widened. “It has.” Not with Turner though. He would have seen straight through her, as he always did. Instead, she thought back to how well she had played the scene in Paris with Sir Barty. Being open, approachable, and then, not giving him her direction. Not being pushy. Seemingly happy on her own. Granted it wasn't exactly ignoring, but the principle was the same. “And it took less than a day.”

Margaret had nodded, her face taking on that concentration reserved only for when she was headed out to the gardens, contemplating a particular problem and its potential solution. And Leticia knew she had made an impression on the girl.

But she couldn't be certain. Either that Margaret would choose to not faint into the dirt in front of God, Mr. Turner, and Helmsley, or if she did ignore him, that its effects would be as abysmal as Leticia hoped. Therefore, she would have to break her word to Turner and involve Sir Barty in the matter.

It's not as if this had anything to do with business, she thought by way of justification. This was about matters of the heart—specifically Sir Barty's daughter's. And if there was anything the man should know about his daughter, it was her duty as his future wife to tell him.

“I'm going into Helmsley tomorrow. Helen is taking me around for market day,” she said, approaching Sir Barty in his library. The plan had been formed while they drank tea in Helen's small parlor. Well, Helen formed the plan and Leticia could think of no way around it, as Sir Barty would not go and Margaret was not one for making introductions.

True to form, he had his foot up, and a second helping of dinner balanced on his stomach. Cook, having been pleased by pleasing the countess, was trotting out every single local Lincolnshire recipe she could find. There were pork chops, pork loin, pork sausage, pork pies, and even the occasional pork in cream sauce. Leticia ate them all enthusiastically, while secretly determining the need to find and hire a good pastry chef, to provide some lighter fare (and yes, sweet tarts would be lighter compared to this).

“Hmm,” Sir Barty said as a reply. “Good. Helen knows everyone in town.”

“I confess, I am looking forward to making friends with new people. I do not think our society should be limited to the Turners.”

“It's not, my dear,” Sir Barty said. “But Helen will be able to introduce you to others. Properly. I know that ladies have their own way of doing things.”

“Yes . . .” she mused, putting her finger to her chin. “It's simply that we see so much of Helen. And of course you know why.”

“Yes,” Sir Barty sighed. “The mill. Helen is determined about it. Truth is, I'm more than happy to have my tenants take their business there if it's more profitable, but I hear such terrible rumors about this new equipment . . . m'dear, you shouldn't worry your head about such business. You should be focused on the wedding, and getting to know the town. Helen is your friend and mine, regardless of the mill. Her son too.”

“Yes. Her son too.” Leticia nodded in agreement. “Although there should be no need for them to call so much if that is the situation with the mill.”

Turner of course hadn't called at all, but that didn't bear mentioning.

“Hmm,” Sir Barty replied. “Whatever you think, m'dear.”

“I just hope this doesn't affect Margaret. She's bound to be disappointed.”

“Hmm,” Sir Barty hummed. Then, her words penetrated his ear hair and made their way to his brain. “Margaret? How could it affect her?”

“Surely you're aware of Margaret's feelings?” Leticia placed a hand to her breast, the picture of ladylike shock.

“Her feelings?”

“For Mr. Turner. She fancies herself in love with him.”

“She does?” His white eyebrows rose in surprise, for once showing his eyes completely.

“Yes. Of course, I've tried to tell her it's inappropriate, and that perhaps some time in London would do her good, meeting new people, seeing new things but—”

“Why?” he interrupted.

“Why, what?” she asked.

“Why would it be inappropriate?” he replied.

“Well . . .” She blushed. “I hate to be indelicate, darling, but you are a gentleman of some note, and he . . . he is a simple miller.”

But much to Leticia's surprise, he shrugged that off. “Mr. Turner was an officer during the war—a captain. He has the friendship of an earl—the Earl of Ashley or something.”

“Ashby,” Leticia said under her breath.

“And the Braithwaites are landed gentry—or were, a few generations ago. Mr. Turner's heritage is not so very low. And besides . . .”

But Sir Barty hesitated.

“Besides?” Leticia prodded.

“Well, would it be so very bad a thing to have Margaret marry someone in Helmsley? And not have to go to London?”

“Darling, if it is the expense of London that worries you, I promise—”

“It's not that.” Sir Barty shook his head. “It's just that Margaret has always liked plants and books better than people. Tossing her into the fray of a London season . . . I just don't want her to be disappointed.”

Leticia found her heart breaking—just a little—for her fiancé. He did love his daughter. He just had no idea what to do about her.

“Darling, surely you see that it's not at all the thing . . .”

“ ‘The thing' doesn't really matter up here,” he countered. “Why are you so against the idea?”

“Because . . .” Because it's preposterous to think that my ex-lover would be my new stepson-in-law?

But that wasn't it. Life was filled with that kind of preposterousness, and it was borne by the people involved and eventually laughed at by them too. This was different . . . having Turner so close was . . .

Disconcerting.

Sir Barty chuckled. “I think you are simply angling for a trip to London,” he twinkled at her. “Don't worry, m'dear, I think we can bear the expense of you going to London for wedding clothes. As long as the dress doesn't cost too much, of course.”

“It's not that,” Leticia replied, flustered. Goodness, her entire argument was falling apart right before her eyes. “It's—”

“How does he feel about her?” Sir Barty asked. “Do you have any idea?”

“I . . . I do not think he has yet formed an opinion.”

“I shall have to ask Helen about it,” Sir Barty mused.

“No!” Leticia cried. “Er, that is . . . I'll speak to Helen about it. It's something for ladies to discuss.”

“Do,” Sir Barty replied as he took and kissed her hand. “I tell you, m'dear, if I could see Margaret so easily settled, and so close to home, I should happily give over my business to the Turner Grain Mill.”

And it was as if the clouds parted and the sun appeared behind Sir Barty's eyes.

Oh dear.

“Say . . . do you think that would be a worthy inducement?”

“An . . . inducement?”

“Well, the promise of my business with the grain mill . . . it would make an interesting dowry, don't you think?”

As Sir Barty began to scheme ways to mix his daughter's happiness with his agricultural ventures, Leticia resisted the urge to put her head down on the table and laugh. Or cry. It seemed even when she did try to influence Sir Barty, she managed to influence him in the wrong direction!

Perhaps she had managed to steer Margaret slightly away from Turner (only time would tell whose plan the child would enact—the suggested ignoring or her own fainting), but if Sir Barty was of a mind to hand his daughter off to the man who had once been her lover . . . well, could even Turner's morality stand up to a father-approved marriage for money?

After all, his morality had led him to make a wager to save his mill. If he decided that Margaret was what he needed for its success, they might end up closer than they ever had been before.

They might end up . . . family.

Oh hell.

11

W
hen Leticia had initially learned about her first husband, Konrad—about his secret life—she discovered that under times of extreme duress she had the unfortunate tendency to break out in hives. She could smile serenely. She could laugh and converse and be everything outwardly a countess was meant to be. Except . . .