To Catch A Suitor (Dalton Family 2)

The air felt heavy. Elizabeth wanted to breathe but she was afraid that if she did, it would come out shaky and tearful, and tears would do no one any good. “Very well.” She looked down and smoothed her skirts, hoping her sister couldn't see just how much her rejection had stung. “I shall leave you then. I have a letter to Mama to finish writing.”

Mary nodded but would not meet Elizabeth’s eye again. “Send her my love.” She gestured toward the copy of La Belle Assemblée. “Will you hand me that one before you leave? I don’t believe I’ve looked through it yet,” said Mary, using one hand to point toward a fashion plate at the bottom of the bed and the other to retrieve a pillow and cover her middle.

Something was most definitely upsetting Mary, and Elizabeth’s heart ached at the sight. She hurt for her sister and also at the distance she felt between them. She had hoped this Season would change things between them, but clearly she had been wrong.

Chapter Five

It had been five days since Oliver had found Elizabeth climbing out of her window, and four days since he had promised himself he wouldn’t spend every single day of the Season with her. Too bad he apparently had the will of a child in a room full of biscuits, because he had spent every single one of those four days with Elizabeth. It wasn’t good. And it wasn’t doing anything to help him lessen his growing feelings toward her.

He knew from Elizabeth that Kensworth would be back in Town today. In fact, he and Rose had been expected at Kensworth House the previous evening. Oliver had intended to pay them a visit when they first arrived, but had gotten stuck at that blasted ball, guilted into filling every young debutante’s dance card. Most nights, he didn’t mind. However, ever since Elizabeth had arrived in Town and been without a proper chaperone, thus unable to attend any social events, he had felt as if London had suddenly lost some of its magic.

Ballrooms didn’t feel quite as dazzling knowing that Elizabeth was only a ten minute carriage ride away. He had pictured her curled up next to a fire reading a gothic novel that Kate had lent her and dying to talk to someone about it. Elizabeth never could just read a book. No, that would be far too docile for her. If Elizabeth was going to open a book, she was going to pause ev

ery minute to recount whatever nonsense she found, or animatedly read the funny bits or…Wonderful. He was still thinking about her. Of course he was, because that seemed to be all Oliver had been able to do for the past several months. Which was why he needed to go visit Kensworth. Seeing the physical evidence that Elizabeth was only his friend’s younger sister would help shift his thoughts back to where they ought to be.

Oliver dressed quickly, left his rented apartment and walked toward Kensworth House as if the ground beneath him was on fire.

It was probably a little ridiculous how much Oliver was looking forward to reuniting with his friend. The two men had been thick as thieves until Kensworth married Rose a little over a month ago. Which was ironic since Rose really had been a thief before their union. And now, this had been one of the longest stretches Oliver and Carver Ashburn, Earl of Kensworth, had gone without seeing each other in a decade. That pitiful fact alone proved that it was good that Kensworth had married Rose.

Oliver looked down at his pocket watch and smiled as he approached the massive familiar townhouse. Kensworth hated mornings. And he especially hated seeing Oliver in the mornings. That’s precisely why he made it a priority to show up in Kensworth’s bedchamber at the earliest hour he could manage. Just then, it was only a quarter past eight o’clock in the morning, so he knew his friend had likely not yet even opened his eyes. Perfect.

Oliver ducked into an alley that led behind the house and headed to the servants’ basement entrance. The trick to achieving the prank was getting in the door without alerting Kenny's butler. He’d been caught a few times and then made to sit in the parlor like a misbehaving child until his lordship was ready for visitors.

Oliver slowed his steps and quieted the click of his boots against the pavement as he rounded the house. He slipped down the small set of cement stairs that led to the servants’ entrance. When he opened the door, he could hear the staff bustling around in the kitchen, so he turned the handle while closing the door to prevent it from making a loud click. He then hunched down as best a man of his exceptional height could and inched quietly toward the stairs.

With Kensworth House’s immense size and lavish furnishings it was exactly the opposite of Oliver’s small bachelor’s quarters. Oliver’s father owned a fine townhouse right on the edge of London’s elite West End but Oliver refused to stay there. It wasn’t that he was afraid of Frank Turner ever coming to stay in the townhouse, because Oliver knew better than that. His father preferred to stay holed up with all of his anger and hatred at Pembroke—the country estate. Oliver refused to live in the townhouse because he simply would not take one penny from that man until the day his father died, and he would inherit the lot of it. Luckily, he had an aunt who had liked Oliver enough to leave him her fortune (small though it was) after she died. It kept him fashionably dressed, properly housed, and adequately fed until he could inherit the fortune his father was loath to give him.

Oliver made it up the narrow set of stairs that led to the ground floor without detection. Peeking his head into the vast main foyer, he found the familiar sight of the large crystal chandelier, a green ornate rug spread over the marble floor, and the longcase clock ticking in the corner. And, thankfully, no disapproving butler.

A grin pulled at his mouth as he eased open the door and stepped fully inside.

“Mr. Turner,” came a voice that made Oliver jump and spin around. He found the disapproving butler emerging from the coat closet. Had he been lying in wait for Oliver?

“Blast, Jeffers,” said Oliver, tugging on the lapels of his jacket and straightening to his full height. “I wasn’t expecting to find you emerging from the closet.”

The man’s face was impressively smug. “I, however, am not surprised at all to find you emerging from the servants’ stairs.” Yes. He had definitely been lying in wait.

“Well,” said Oliver with a grin, “it’s lovely to see you as always, Jeffers, but I can see myself up to Lord Kensworth’s rooms.”

“Mr. Turner,” said Jeffers in a lazy tone, most likely weary from having to utter the same phrase he had said dozens of times before. “His Lordship—”

“—Does not receive visitors before the hour of ten o’clock. I know, I know,” said Oliver, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “But surely, by now, you know me well enough to make an exception?” Oliver flashed his most charming smile.

“No.”

His smile fell. “Fine. I will go wait in the parlor until his lor—” but then he spun around the scowling butler and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Oliver didn’t look back. He knew he would find Jeffers wearing a black look and possibly muttering profanities under his breath. It never failed to make Oliver grin. Elizabeth would have been proud of that spin maneuver.

Oliver paused and took a moment outside of Kensworth’s room to collect himself. He tugged at the bottom of his light blue waistcoat, ran a hand against his hair attempting to put it back in place, and rolled his shoulders in preparation for waking the esteemed Earl of Kensworth.

Once, Oliver had thrown a basin of water on Kensworth and then taken off, running out of the house before his friend had time to catch and murder him. Another time, he had woken him by placing a live chicken in his bed. The lengths he had gone to catch and find that chicken were perhaps a little mad—but it had been worth it to see Kensworth’s face when he opened his eyes. Today, however, he was going to settle for the simple run and jump. Startling, yet effective.

The moment after Oliver turned the handle and opened the door, something soft and fluffy smacked into his face. Apparently the butler wasn’t the only one who had been expecting him. Oliver blinked down at the pillow lying innocently at his feet.

He chuckled and stepped into Kensworth’s darkened room. “Well, good morning to you too, darling.”

“Go away, Oliver,” said Kensworth, his voice muffled by the pillow covering his face.

“Did you just throw a pillow at me?” Oliver asked, moving more fully into the room to stand next to the bed.