“Who were you speaking to just now?” Tabitha asked, latching on to my arm and pulling me down the walk toward her carriage. “I tried to give you privacy as long as I could, but my nose would not allow me to be patient a moment longer.”
“Just Mr. Prologue.” I glanced behind me, half wishing he would leave the shop at that precise moment so I could see him one last time. He had a face a woman could dream about.
“Mr. Who?”
I gave a soft laugh. “It isn’t his real name, but then again, I don’t know his real name. Though I feel as though I ought to. Perhaps I have passed by him dozens of times, but we have only now noticed each other.”
Tabitha’s head drew back. “You were conversing so comfortably with a stranger? And I, as your chaperone, allowed it? Mother would have my head if she knew.”
“There was nothing untoward,” I clarified. “We met briefly in a bookshop. That is all. And Mr. Prologue is a gentleman if he is anything.”
Tabitha twisted her mouth to the side. “You wish me to believe that you gave a nickname to a man you met in passing?”
“We might have passed each other a few times.” Any more run-ins and I would insist on calling him by something more substantial than Prologue. Mr. Smoldering Stare with the heart-pounding smile and a passion for the words had a certain ring to it. Or should I say, Mr.I’m going to be in trouble if I continue to think about him this way. I tried to shrug the whole thing off, but Tabitha was watching me with her keen eyes.
“Good heavens, Arabella. You are about to be engaged to another man. You cannot be flirting with a stranger.”
I balked. “Flirting? Who said anything about flirting? We were discussing books in a bookshop. It was a perfectly harmless conversation.”
Maybe not perfectly. Mostly harmless was more accurate. But I dared not admit as much to Tabitha. I daresay, no one who had met the man could blame me.
“Harmless, indeed.” Tabitha steered me around a barrel outside of a shop. “I am quite sure I heard you giggle. I had hoped you were speaking to a known acquaintance—one that might be a better match for you than Mr. Clodwick.”
Clodwick, right. I should be thinking of him and only him. “Mr. Clodwick is a good match, Tabitha. You told me that yourself.” I would spend the rest of the day reminding myself.
Tabitha stopped outside the carriage. “He is a good match for some young lady, but I never thought he was good enough for you, except that his house is so very near mine.” She paused. “Never mind. I still think he is a good match. Having you close is a convenience we cannot ignore.”
I absently smoothed my dress. “Regardless, it’s too late to find a better candidate. It’s Clodwick or Ashworth, and I refuse to marry that vexing idiot from my childhood.”
“What about Mr. Prologue? We could find someone to introduce us, and we can invite him to dinner.”
My feet slowed to a stop in front of her carriage, my imagination running wild with possibilities. It only ever did this when I was writing fiction, which was precisely what this daydream was. I was still me, and he was still perfectly him. “He is leaving town straightaway,” I admitted, barely able to hide my disappointment. “It has to be Clodwick.”
A footmen assisted us inside the carriage and as soon as I was seated, I repeated the words in my head I had spoken to my sister. It has to be Clodwick. Ithasto be Clodwick. The mantra kept rhythm with the carriage ride back to Tabitha’s and again that night all the way to Mr. Clodwick’s house for dinner. Upon arriving, Mr. Mason hopped out first, helping Tabitha out of the carriage and leaving a kiss on his wife’s hand before reaching for mine.
The tender moment between the couple pulled at my heartstrings, but I whispered under my breath one last time, “It has to be Clodwick.”
My sister and her husband led the way up the gravel walk. Behind them, I tipped back my head to admire the large front portico of Gravehurst Manor. Even in the evening light, I could tell the house wasmassive, with two wings featuring a colonnade and three floors worth of windows.
Think of what masterpieces I might write in a house such as this!
A butler let us in and guided us to an oversized drawing room with more Baroque architecture. Old manor homes such as these were full of history and untold stories.
Mr. Clodwick entered the room and dipped his head in a perfunctory bow. “Welcome, friends. Please, make yourselves at home.”
“Thank you.” I took a step toward him. “Your house is beautiful.”
He cast his gaze about the room. “If you don’t mind a few ghosts haunting the corners.”
I blinked a few times and furrowed my brow. Did he just say ghosts?
Mr. Mason, the most relaxed man I knew, gave a soft chuckle and leaned against the wall in front of the fireplace. “Well done, Clodwick. I do believe that is your first joke.
Mr. Clodwick’s mouth did not so much as reveal a hint of mirth. “It was no jest, I assure you.”
Mason straightened his tall, lean form. “You do not mean to scare away your first guests, do you? We came hungry and plan to stay through all the courses.” Mason’s friendly jests did not seem to be getting through to Mr. Clodwick.
“Now you know the reason I do not entertain,” he said, coming slowly to my side. “I had hoped that your passion for the arts would help you to overlook the angry spirits who lord over this manor.”