Page 65 of The Wallflower Takes All

Gabriel felt the lapse immediately. His reply had been too resolute, too personal. He softened his tone. “You should be as particular as circumstances allow.”

She pressed her lips together. “And if circumstances allow very little?”

“Then you should still allow yourself some measure of choice.”

The faint humor left her face. “Choice is a luxury, Mr. Ashby.”

“No,” he said. “It is a right.”

Something vulnerable moved behind her eyes. “You say that like a man who has always possessed it.”

He had no answer for that. Perhaps because she was correct. He had chosen his profession, his course, his habits, his restraints. He had chosen almost everything of consequence in his life, except the grief that had taught him order and the father whose tender heart had taught him caution.

Miss Montfort had been given chaos and told to make it palatable. He wanted to reach for her. Place one hand upon her shoulder. Tell her that no man worthy of being her husband would look at her and see only debts, inconvenience, and Lady Viva’s latest collection of improbable acquaintances.

He lifted his hand.

Then the soprano began to sing, Mr. Loxley demanded to know whether seed cake counted as worldly pleasure, and Gabriel remembered that comfort was not his right to offer.

He lowered his hand.

Lady Viva called from across the room, “Poppy, darling, has seed cake ever been known to cause death?”

Miss Montfort turned, composure fastening itself into place. “Not generally, Mama. Cake improves nearly everyone.”

Mr. Loxley lifted his plate in salute. “Then I shall postpone eternity. For today at least.”

“A wise decision,” Gabriel said.

Miss Montfort looked back at him, and the moment between them was gone. Not vanished, perhaps. Only folded away.

That was for the best.

Professionally, the course remained clear. He would finish the settlement once a suitor appeared, see that Miss Montfort had the best terms possible, and restrain Lady Viva from signing promissory notes to criminals. When the marriage was arranged, when some titled gentleman finally appeared with a tolerable character and sufficient income, Gabriel would leave.

He would return to his office, his lists, his ordinary future. He would marry someone sensible at thirty. He would not think of yellow morning gowns, stolen gloves, or bonnet ribbons.

Miss Montfort touched the papers in her hands. “Thank you for doing this.”

“It is my work.”

Her brows lifted.

He amended, because that was not quite the truth. “Part of it, at least.” He took up his hat from the table where Jenkins had placed it. “I shall call again when Lord Montague replies. In the meantime, if anything requires legal attention, send for me.”

“I shall,” Miss Montfort replied.

He turned toward the door.

“Mr. Ashby?” she said.

Gabriel looked back.

“What if I cannot tell the difference?”

Between legal duty and personal feeling. Between household disorder and real consequence. Between needing a solicitor and needing someone steady enough to stand beside her.

The question struck deeper than it should have.