The Convenient Felstone Marriage (Whitby Weddings 1)

‘A peace offering. You said you didn’t have a gown for the ball.’

‘So you brought me one?’ She frowned, surprise vying with irritation. Peace offering or not, the gesture was hardly appropriate. She didn’t want anything from him—nothing except his departure.

‘Forgive the impertinence, but I mentioned your situation to my friend’s wife, who was happy to offer a loan. You’re around the same size so I believe it should fit. If you wish to borrow it, that is.’

Ianthe made her way warily across the parlour, lifting the lid and trying not to gasp as she caught a glimpse of the satin fabric inside. The dress was beautiful, a silvery light grey, simply cut with a round neckline and not so much as a flounce or ruffle in sight. She ran her fingers over the sumptuous material, resisting the urge to press it against her cheek. Such a gown would be a joy to wear. It also looked suspiciously new.

‘I recall your brother mentioning that you like grey.’

‘It’s lovely.’ She tore her fingers away reluctantly. ‘Your friend’s wife is very generous, but I can’t possibly accept.’

He ignored her objection. ‘I also managed to procure an invitation for your aunt. I noticed her name wasn’t on the guest list.’

‘For Aunt Sophoria?’ She spun around eagerly. That was an even better present than the dress, though she’d no intention of forgiving him so easily, no matter how churlish she sounded. ‘That was very thoughtful. My aunt will enjoy herself, I’m sure, though she hardly needs me to chaperon her.’

‘What don’t I need, dear?’ Aunt Sophoria bustled into the room at that moment, barely visible behind a giant tea tray.

‘Allow me.’ Mr Felstone stooped to relieve her at once. ‘I was just telling your niece that I’ve arranged invitations for you both to the ball this evening. If you care to attend, that is.’

‘The ball?’ Aunt Sophoria’s face lit up instantly. ‘Well, we’d be delighted, wouldn’t we, Ianthe? Do take a seat, Mr Felstone.’

‘Thank you, Miss Gibbs.’

He looked around as if searching for an available seat, and Ianthe felt a smug sense of triumph, pleased for once to see him at a disadvantage. Despite the preponderance of furniture, nearly every chair was hidden beneath some form of lace-based frippery.

‘Allow me.’ She smiled condescendingly, uncovering a small sofa beneath a pile of cushions.

‘My thanks.’ He caught her eye with a flash of amusement in his own. ‘Won’t you join me?’

The smile dropped from her face at once. Getting dressed, the thought of sitting down had somehow never occurred to her. She’d worn hoops in the past, of course, but never such a vast crinoline. Now she wondered how her aunt managed. Awkwardly, she reversed towards the opposite sofa, bending her knees slowly as she tried to make her progress look as natural as possible.

‘Sugar lumps!’ Her aunt’s sudden cry made her freeze halfway down.

‘What’s the matter, Aunt?’

‘I forgot the sugar lumps.’ Aunt Sophoria was already back on her feet. ‘Do pour Mr Felstone some tea, dear. I won’t be long.’

Ianthe stared at the teapot in horror. If she offered him tea then she’d have to stand up again! She cast an anxious glance towards him, but he seemed oblivious to her distress, apparently engrossed in the porcelain figure of a small dog at his feet.

She cleared her throat. ‘Would you care for some tea, Mr Felstone?’

He glanced up, the shadow of a smile passing his lips. ‘I think perhaps we ought to wait for your aunt.’

She dropped the rest of the way into her seat with an unladylike thud. What was he still doing there? He’d made his peace offering, as he called it. If he was waiting for her to forgive and forget, he could wait all day. Silently, she stared down at her hands, her fingerless, crocheted gloves folded neatly in her lap. Why couldn’t he just put her out of her misery and leave?

‘Miss Holt.’ His deep voice broke the silence at last. ‘Yesterday I behaved in an appalling manner. I’m afraid that my temper has a tendency to get the better of me. My apology was churlish and my proposal somewhat less than chivalrous. I beg you to forgive me.’

She looked up again quickly, glancing towards the parlour door in alarm. She didn’t want her aunt to overhear that!

‘Very well. We’ll say no more about it.’

‘Just one more thing and I’ll be silent. Before you left, you accused me of mocking you. I assure you that I wasn’t.’

‘No?’ She couldn’t keep the scepticism out of her voice.

‘No. You may not think me a gentleman, but I do have some sense of decency. Why would I joke about such a thing?’

‘Because, as my brother so delicately observed, I’m not the kind of woman men generally propose to.’