Page 61 of The Wallflower Takes All

It would not be Gabriel.

He had been raised to understand his place in the world. Solicitors did not marry noblemen’s daughters, even impoverished ones with scandalous mothers. His own plan for marriage had always been sensible. Establish the practice, expand the client list, pay off the last lingering debts his father had ignored in the name of compassion, and, perhaps when he was thirty, marry a woman suited to his life. He had two more years.

She would be a professional man’s daughter, perhaps. Someone steady. Someone who understood economy, punctuality, and the soothing virtues of a quiet breakfast.

Someone who did not make him want to forget quiet breakfasts had ever existed.

Gabriel took his hat, tucked the marriage contract beneath his arm, and left before his thoughts could grow any less useful.

The Montfort front door stood open when he arrived, which was rarely a promising sign.

Inside the foyer, Freddie raced in a triumphant circle with a folded sheet of paper in his mouth while Jenkins pursued him with dignified despair.

“Freddie,” Jenkins called.

The spaniel skidded around the hall table.

“Freddie,” Jenkins repeated, with a severity that had no visible effect.

Gabriel set down his hat and the papers, waited until the puppy made another loop, then stepped neatly into his path.

Freddie attempted to swerve.

He failed.

Gabriel caught him beneath the forelegs and lifted him. The dog wriggled, paper clenched between his teeth, eyes bright with surprise.

“You have been apprehended,” Gabriel informed him.

Freddie growled around the paper.

“Your objection is noted.”

Jenkins accepted the dog with visible relief. “Thank you, sir.”

Gabriel extracted the page. It was not a bill, a legal notice, or a letter from Lord Montague.

It was a…poem?

Dearest Viva, should this frail heart surrender

Before the moon has lost her silver splendor?—

Gabriel stopped. Mr. Loxley, no doubt. “Has his condition worsened?”

Jenkins looked at the poem. “It appears to fluctuate according to the availability of an audience.”

Gabriel shook his head. “Remarkable.”

A laugh came from the drawing room doorway.

Gabriel looked up.

Miss Montfort stood there in a pale-yellow morning gown, one hand resting lightly against the doorframe. Her bright curls had begun slipping from their pins, and a faint smudge of ink marked the side of one finger. She looked tired. She also looked amused.

The sight affected him in a manner no tired young lady in a morning gown ought to affect any solicitor alive.

“Good morning, Mr. Ashby,” she said.