Two years. Surely two years of courting should be enough to allow an engagement.
He folded the three sheets of paper in thirds, always measuring twice before creasing it firmly between his thumb and the desk. Opening the drawer to his left, he reached in without looking to retrieve his sealing wax. Father would want to see these numbers. His fingers fumbled in the desk until he took the time to glance in the drawer. His wax was missing. His hand stilled. Who had been moving his things? He never allowed his personal items to be misplaced. Everything in his study had a place, and they remained there unless in use.
He slid back, his chair grating against the floor. He would have to use the wax in the library. After sending off this letter, he would be sure to speak with Mrs. Bates about the servants handling his things. Such carelessness had cost him at least three minutes of time.
He crossed the hall and opened the door to the library. A flutter of frantic movement greeted him from the direction of the curtains. They billowed out and then closed as if someone had run behind them. Certainly enough, a pair of boots poked out from under the heavy damask fabric his mother had picked out years before her death. Who would be hiding from him? And in such a ridiculous location? The woman, for based on the size of the feet inside of the black boots—
Anthony narrowed his eyes and stepped forward. He had seen those boots before.
They were a simple black leather, but the buckles were set in a unique manner, offset and further to the outside than was common. The nearly black leather had hints of burgundy smattered about. Miss Morgan had fawned over those boots at one of the finest shops in town last week. She must have convinced the cobbler to sell them to her after all. She had offered him an exorbitant price. Anthony was not surprised he finally agreed.
His chest swelled, and the stress of a morning filled with tight finances finally seeped away.
Miss Morgan was here, in his library.
Alone.
His hand trembled slightly. He stepped slowly and carefully in her direction. She must be nervous if she had opted to hide from him. A small smile grew on his lips. After two years of persistence and steadfastness, he had finally won her over. Her parents must have agreed to the match, and then she’d rushed over to tell him.
Nothing would stop him from reaching for her now—
A flash of red caught his eye. Was that his red block of wax on the side table? It was significantly smaller than it should have been, and red, streaky wax coated the top of the table. What the devil? He snatched up the wax and then rubbed his finger on the mess that had been left behind on the century-old wood. What exactly was going on here?
A rustle of fabric behind the curtain snapped him out of his confusion. Bother his wax, Miss Morgan was waiting for him. What was the proper reaction when the woman he had been pursuing for two years finally reached out to him?
First, he shouldn’t make her nervous. He would approach slowly and cautiously. Second, he would speak to her softly and let her know he could be trusted to be a gentleman no matter the situation. And finally . . . finally, he would propose. The property in Kent would no longer be a financial burden. His father would at last see him do something he would be proud of. The Woodsworth name would be elevated, not even remotely like the way his father had elevated it, but it would be elevated nonetheless by his marriage to Miss Morgan. After all, her cousin was the Duke of Penramble. His holdings were so vast in London that society had practically forgotten about the duke’s Scottish titles. Titles that would eventually pass to the Morgan family. As long as the duke never had children.
The Woodsworth name would no longer be common. It was everything his father had ever wished for.
He reached the curtain and tried to pull it back with a flourish. But it was stuck. Delicate white fingers held the thick material fast.
Miss Morgan—shy? She had never been so before. But she had never been given permission to marry him before either. And he could think of no other reason she would be visiting him unless this was the case.
“Miss Morgan?”
There was a rustle of fabric just below his chin. Although he couldn’t see it, she was shaking her head.
“Miss Morgan, come out. I’m pleased you are here. You must know how pleased. There is no reason to be reticent.” He placed his hand over the one of hers still holding the fabric of the curtains tight around her. Her skin was delicate and soft, the fingernails smooth and . . . He rubbed the side of her forefinger. There was a substance there . . . wax? A stain of red was under each of her fingernails. What had Miss Morgan been doing with his wax on the table?
“Enough, come out.”
“No.” Her voice was muffled. And defiant. Miss Morgan usually simpered or laughed. Defiance wasn’t really part of her nature.
“How am I to propose to you if you don’t come out?”
“You aren’t. Just go away.”
“Go away? When you have come into my home for the first time unexpectedly?” He reached around the curtain and slid his hand around her wrist. Should he kneel? Had he heard that somewhere? Frankly, he had never imagined proposing while Miss Morgan stood behind a curtain. Lately he had begun to wonder if he would ever be allowed to propose at all. They had seemed to be at an impasse, and the only thing he could think to make his suit more desirable was to buy that land in Kent.
But she had come on her own, without knowing about the purchase of the Kent property. He had finally won her heart.
He knelt.
Her hand stayed where it was, which put him in the awkward position of kneeling with his hands stretched above his head in order to reach her.
“Miss Morgan—”
The curtain shook again rapidly, and she tried to pull her hand out of his, but he held firm. Two years. Two years of courting, and finally he would do something to make his father proud. No curtain would stop him now. “Will you consent to be my—”
“No!” came a shout behind the curtain. The hand loosened its hold on the material and finally let it drop away from her. Light shone from the window behind her, making her auburn curls look as if they were on fire.
He leapt to his feet and dropped her hand. Before him stood a beautiful young woman. But even if she was beautiful, one thing was for certain: she was not Miss Morgan. He had seen that thin nose, those sweeping, dramatic eyebrows, and that wide mouth just earlier today. Had Mrs. Bates actually hired the woman? He wouldn’t have thought she could have made it in the door with her ill-fitting clothes and unconventional ways of getting into a garden. He straightened his back and pulled on his sleeves. It would seem he wouldn’t be proposing to Miss Morgan today after all.
***
The man who had nearly proposed to her stood like a soldier, even though he wasn’t wearing a uniform. “Who are you?”
Patience swallowed. She needed time to think. What were the chances she would run into this same man both times she was being ridiculous today? She had no idea how to polish furniture. She had thought it had something to do with wax, and the only wax she had used in the past was sealing wax. She had found some, but the awful mess had made her certain she was doing it wrong.