“I believe I have all the beauties of Squalton assembled in this parlor, Miss Hodwell.”
“Scoundrel,” she giggled, swatting the air with sugar-coated fingers.
Today’s Miss Oliver was a far cry from yesterday’s. Every strand of hair was tucked into place, every seed pearl buttoned on her gloves, lace up to her throat. Wholesome and nourishing. A bowl of healthful oatmeal with honey drizzled over it. The very picture of propriety.
But he knew better. He knew that she had a rebellious streak that no amount of pearl buttons and corset boning could contain. The way she’d darted those shy glances at his chest and his lips, and the wide eyes and rapid breathing that had betrayed her approval of what she saw... He’d thought of nothing else since.
“You have a most dashing air of mystery and, dare I say, danger about you, Mr. Smith,” said Mrs. McGovern, a touch disapprovingly. “Do tell us where you hail from and who your people are.”
“Perhaps I prefer to leave it a mystery, Mrs. McGovern, since you find it so dashing.”
“I thought you were... that is to say, when are you leaving, Mr. Smith?” Miss Oliver asked.
“The village farrier must stay sober long enough to make me a new horseshoe. I’m at a loss as to what one does to pass the time here, Miss Oliver.”
“You couldn’t ask for a more excellent guide to our fair town than Miss Oliver. She’s an expert on the town’s storied history and secretary of the Squalton Historical Preservation and Improvement Society,” Mrs. McGovern said proudly.
“Indeed.” That would explain the historical lectures referred to by the men in the pub, who were all in love with her, for obvious reasons.
“We hope to one day convince the Duke of Rydell to give us Squalton Manor for use as a museum or other attraction for visitors,” Mrs. McGovern continued.
“I viewed the manor yesterday, and it’s in a dreadful state of disrepair. It should be demolished and something more modern erected in its place.”
“Demolished!” Tea splashed over the edge of Miss Oliver’s teacup. “You can’t be serious, Mr. Smith. A building of such historical significance must never be destroyed. It must be lovingly renovated, its beauty and stories preserved for future generations to enjoy.”
“Why don’t you give Mr. Smith a tour of the manor, Miss Oliver?” asked Miss Hodwell. “You’ll convince him far more easily that way.”
“Do you have a key, Miss Oliver?” Surprising. The documents from his father’s man of affairs had stated that the house was boarded up and uninhabitable and hadn’t been opened in decades.
“I don’t.”
“Then, you broke in?”
“I did not.”
“How mysterious.”
“You’re not the only one with secrets, Mr. Smith.”
“Now I’m intrigued.”
“Go on, then, Miss Oliver,” urged Miss Hodwell. “You can read to us another day.”
“I couldn’t possibly,” Miss Oliver demurred.
“I’d love to see the manor,” Dane said.
Miss Oliver wavered, sensing danger, like the sunshiny, innocent thing she was. But Dane wasn’t trying to get her alone in a dark house, though the thought was stimulating.
He hadn’t expected the chance to enter the property without alerting anyone in town to his status as the new owner. This was a chance to view the condition of the interior with an eye to selling the property, and perhaps the furnishings and decorations, if they were in good repair.
“I’ll go with you, dearie,” said Miss Hodwell. “I haven’t visited the manor in some time, and I shall enjoy the tour.”
That decided it. With a suitable chaperone in place, the proper Miss Oliver agreed to give the tour. They all walked together toward the manor house, Miss Hodwell chattering the whole way about Miss Oliver’s plans to restore the structure.
“This is the house where my mother and I live,” Miss Oliver said, indicating a small stone cottage on a hill a short distance from the manor.
“Am I going to meet your mother?” Dane asked.