Daisies and Devotion Read online

  Other Proper Romances

  by Josi S. Kilpack

  A Heart Revealed

  Lord Fenton’s Folly

  Forever and Forever

  A Lady’s Favor (eBook only)

  The Lady of the Lakes

  The Vicar’s Daughter

  All That Makes Life Bright

  Miss Wilton’s Waltz

  Promises and Primroses (Mayfield Family, book 1)

  Other Titles

  by Josi S. Kilpack

  The Sadie Hoffmiller Culinary Mystery Series:

  Lemon Tart

  English Trifle

  Devil’s Food Cake

  Key Lime Pie

  Blackberry Crumble

  Pumpkin Roll

  Banana Split

  Tres Leches Cupcakes

  Baked Alaska

  Rocky Road

  Fortune Cookie

  Wedding Cake

  Sadie’s Little Black Recipe Book

  © 2019 Josi S. Kilpack

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain®, at [email protected]. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Proper Romance is a registered trademark.

  Visit us at shadowmountain.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Kilpack, Josi S., author. | Kilpack, Josi S. Mayfield family ; bk. 2.

  Title: Daisies and devotion / Josi S. Kilpack.

  Description: Salt Lake City, Utah : Shadow Mountain, [2019] | Series: Mayfield family ; book 2

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018039642 | ISBN 9781629725529 (paperbound) | eISBN 9781629737454

  Subjects: | LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Novels.

  Classification: LCC PS3611.I45276 D35 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018039642

  Printed in the United States of America

  Lake Book Manufacturing, Inc., Melrose Park, IL

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  COVER IMAGE CREDITS

  Cover photos: Irina Bg/shutterstock.com, Nella/shutterstock.com

  Book design: © Shadow Mountain

  Art direction: Richard Erickson

  Design: Heather G. Ward

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  April 10, 1822

  After two minutes of sitting, Timothy was on his feet, walking the perimeter of the drawing room and looking over each of the excellent paintings on the wall. He’d never been one to sit still very long. Miss Morrington’s father, Sir Wayne Morrington, had recently restored this house, so the corners were crisp and the design wonderfully modern. Sir Wayne had invested in gaslights back when other men turned their noses at the idea, and this house had been one of the first homes in London with the innovation. Had it not been the middle of the afternoon, the copper lamp hanging from the ceiling would have kept the lovely room bright. Sir Wayne had done very well for himself, to be sure, and though the ton might dismiss men of trade, when those men did as well as Sir Wayne had done, they opened their doors and forgot their prejudice.

  Timothy heard movement and turned toward the doorway in time to see Maryann Morrington enter, her maid following behind. Miss Morrington’s sister, Deborah, must not be available to attend them today. The maid went straight to the chair in the far corner that Timothy suspected was there specifically for those poor servants who had to attend their charges through visits such as these. His mother had been a maid—a scandal that kept Timothy mindful of the very thin margin that separated him from the serving class.

  But life was too short and too beautiful to be spent thinking on the darker corners of things.

  Timothy amplified his smile and crossed the room to bow over Miss Morrington’s hand. He did not kiss her knuckles, but added a flourish and put his foot forward to exaggerate the bow. The dramatic gesture usually made girls giggle. But not Miss Morrington.

  “You look as lovely as the morning, Miss Morrington,” he said as he straightened.

  She blinked golden-brown eyes and pulled her eyebrows together so that a line showed between them. “The morning is quite gray, Mr. Mayfield.”

  “Is it?” Timothy glanced out one of the unusually large windows. Lovely windows, truly. The sky was indeed gray! He turned back to her and shrugged good-naturedly. “Well, the temperature is wonderfully mild. I did not even need my greatcoat, though I wore it all the same. Fancy a walk through Hyde Park so that I might prove that even a gray day can be lovely when one has good company?”

  Rather than clap her hands and run for her bonnet, Miss Morrington sat on one end of the green-and-yellow-striped settee.

  All right then.

  Following her example, he sat in one of the green velvet chairs across from her, a round table between them. The fireplace had been lit which made the temperature of the room very comfortable. “Sadly, I’ve a head cold and am therefore disinclined to go out.”

  He sobered. “Ah. I see. It is completely miserable to have a cold in spring. You have my condolences.” He refrained from adding that the upside was that she could lie abed and read all day as she recovered. Timothy loved to lie abed and read when he was under the weather. Not everyone appreciated his pointing out such silver linings when they were not feeling well, however.

  She smiled, her already round cheeks plumping even more, but it wasn’t a happy smile. Poor girl.

  “When do you think you might feel better?” Timothy asked when she did not add words to her response.

  There came that line between her brows again, and this time with a mild air of exasperation. Gracious, he’d only been in her company a minute and a half, and he was already wearing her thin. That did not bode well for his suit.

  “I have no idea when I might feel better, Mr. Mayfield.”

  Yes, that was frustration in her tone. Had he been rude?

  She folded her hands in her lap. “I’m afraid the malady did not check in with an expected date of expiration.”

  Timothy laughed and feigned a parry with an invisible sword. “Touché, Miss Morrington.” He assumed an exaggerated frown. “There are few things worse than a linge
ring illnesses. What might I do to help you feel better?”

  Her expression softened, and his spirits lifted in personal victory—Miss Morrington did not smile easily. Perhaps because her mother had died only seven months ago. Or maybe because her father had not come to London with them. She must miss him. But that was all the more reason for her to seek out joy now that she was out of mourning. Besides, coaxing a smile from her was worth twice the victory as that from another debutante because it was so mindfully given.

  Suddenly inspired, Timothy jumped to his feet. “I have it,” he proclaimed, pointing at the ceiling. “I shall act out a scene for you and you might apply your mind to guessing what scene it is. Would you like that, Miss Morrington?”

  Her expression froze somewhere between a scowl and a smile. “Act out a scene? What are you talking about, Mr. Mayfield?”

  He wagged his eyebrows and surveyed the room for props. He hurried toward a round vase and held it up toward the window, ignoring the slight gasp from the maid in the corner. He would not be distracted. He put his other hand on his chest and began to mouth the words and pantomime the actions associated with Hamlet’s soliloquy to poor Yorick’s skull. Who did not adore Hamlet? Timothy attended plays as often as possible, and he had even acted a part in a production or two when he had been at Cambridge.

  When he reached the midpoint of the pantomimed speech, he turned on his heel toward the other side of the room, then fell upon his knees as he silently begged the jester’s help in making his lady laugh. In the final moment, Timothy pulled the vase to his chest and bowed his head. He counted to three and then peered up at his audience of one.

  Miss Morrington was smiling and shaking her head. “Oh, Mr. Mayfield, you are a jester all your own.”

  “Jester?” Timothy repeated, putting one hand behind his ear and leaning toward her. “Is that your guess on this scene I have so expertly acted out for your benefit?”

  She laughed out loud this time, a short, punching laugh, almost like a man’s. He only just suppressed a shudder. He’d heard her laugh from afar but never up close. Most unfeminine.

  “You are Hamlet addressing Yorick, of course.”

  “Of course?” He got to his feet, adopting a stiff and offended posture while putting his free hand on his hip as though he were a fishwife. “Do not damage my pride by insinuating that any number of other suitors have come into this room and dazzled you with this display of this particular scene.”

  Her smile fell.

  He reviewed his words but could not guess where he had misspoken. “Have I said something amiss?” He took his hand from his hip to better fit the change of mood.

  “Suitors?” she repeated.

  That was what had drawn her attention? He’d all but stood on his head like a monkey and what caught her mind was the word “suitors”? He returned the vase to its place and sat back in the chair across from her. “That word upsets you?”

  “Not necessarily.” She shook her head, some girlish insecurity breaking through her usually confident demeanor.

  Timothy did not mind Miss Morrington’s advanced age of twenty-two, but he was still getting used to the difference between her more measured ways and those of the young debutantes so eager to have a man’s attention. Those younger girls simpered and pouted and pranced without restraint—it was all rather exhausting. Miss Morrington, on the other hand, watched carefully, spoke slowly, and did not give many hints as to what she was thinking. She sniffled, and he fetched his handkerchief from the inside pocket of his coat and offered it to her.

  “Thank you,” she said as she took the proffered handkerchief and dabbed at her nose. In the meantime, that flash of insecurity he’d seen in her expression faded back into politeness. He literally watched as her back straightened and her chin came up, restoring her to her regal pose. She fit London and its manners very well and made those younger girls look rather silly. “Are you a suitor, Mr. Mayfield?”

  He felt as though to answer badly would end with a boot in his backside. Not her boot, of course, but her butler’s. In school, Timothy had often been singled out from his classmates after failing to keep quiet through a lecture. The teacher would demand Timothy repeat back the point of the lesson. Which, of course, Timothy had not heard because he had been engaged in a discussion with his neighbor about what games they might play after class.

  “Am I not a suitor, Miss Morrington?”

  She watched him a moment, then looked at his handkerchief in her hand. “I have not been certain whether your intentions were . . . specific or whether we were simply friends.”

  “Well, we are friends.” Timothy grinned wider than necessary, hoping to ease her worries. “But as I hear it, friends make the very best of suitors.” He winked and was rewarded with the tiniest pink of her full cheeks.

  “Are you a suitor because you have learned of my inheritance? I suspect it has been whispered about, despite my family’s attempts to keep it from the gossipmongers of the ton.” She glanced toward her maid, who gave her a sympathetic smile. Apparently, this had been a topic of discussion between the two of them.

  Timothy was unsure of the right way to answer. It was gauche to discuss money but rude to ignore a direct question.

  When he did not answer, Miss Morrington cocked her head to the side, held him with her golden-brown eyes, and spoke in a soft, but still strong, voice. “If you care for me at all, Mr. Mayfield, I would ask that you be honest. Are you here because of my fortune?”

  He would not be any kind of gentleman, or friend, if he did not honor the sincerity of her question. Plus, Timothy was not a dishonest man. Fun-loving, overly optimistic, energetic, engaging, and silly to some, yes—but not dishonest. “I am here, first and foremost, because I am your friend.” He smiled, but she did not. “But I am aware of your inheritance.”

  Her shoulders fell a bit. “From whom did you learn of it? Did Lucas tell you?”

  “No.” He would not want to cast doubt on his friend’s reputation. Not when Lucas was married to Maryann’s sister, Deborah, and had been the one to introduce him to Miss Morrington.

  “I regret to have to confirm that your inheritance has been quite the topic in town these last two weeks.”

  She smiled, which he hadn’t expected, but then she had been hard to read from the beginning. She would sometimes get irritated when he expected her to laugh, and now she smiled when he thought she’d be upset. Women were mad. Heaven help the men who had to try to make sense of them and were flogged for their attempts. Not actual flogging, of course, metaphorical flogging. Timothy felt sure he’d suffered a couple of lashes already in this conversation, though he’d be hard-pressed to go back and find where he’d earned the punitive measures.

  “Thank you for your honest answer,” she said, in a tired voice. “I’ve had half a dozen gentlemen call upon me unexpectedly, and I had wondered if my fortune might be the reason. I asked two others, and they assured me they did not know what I was talking about, but I knew they were hiding something. At least I no longer have to guess at the reasons behind their sudden interest.”

  Half a dozen? Timothy’s mouth went dry at the thought of that much competition. “It would be uncomfortable not to trust the motives of such visits.”

  She fixed him with those golden-brown eyes again. “Yes, it has been. What, then, should I think of your motivation?”

  “Your boldness leaves me quite unbalanced, Miss Morrington.”

  She smiled again, but the expression was not entirely comfortable on her face. As though it covered a more honest expression she did not want to show him. “A woman of known fortune can hardly be blamed for boldness, Mr. Mayfield. Rather she would be a fool to be anything but bold. So, is your motivation in calling on me as a suitor the same as the others? Are you in need of making a moneyed match?”

  Timothy squirmed in his chair. This was a most unexpected conversation. “You
say it as though I have never called on you before. I only learned of your inheritance a fortnight ago, and yet you and I have enjoyed one another’s company several times before that.”

  When Miss Morrington had first arrived in London several weeks ago, she was still in mourning, though she was wearing gray and not black. He’d first sought her company to please Lucas, who wanted his wife’s sister to feel welcomed in London. She’d had her coming out in Somerset when she was sixteen, but when her mother fell ill shortly thereafter, she became her mother’s companion and caregiver for the next five years. After her mother passed last September, Maryann Morrington could not put off the necessity of a season in London, but she had refused to end her mourning period until a full six months after her mother’s death. Though Maryann had attended society events those first weeks, she had not danced or stayed past eleven o’clock. Timothy would seek her out at the events they both attended and found her a good conversationalist and an excellent listener. At the Guthries’ ball last week, he had made a point to be the first man to ask her to dance now that she was wearing colors.

  And here he was today, calling on her as he’d promised to do that night.

  Miss Morrington held his eyes in such a way that he worried she knew exactly what he was charting out in his mind while she waited for his answer. Oh, rubbish. He cleared his throat and reminded himself that his primary goal in pursuing a wife was to not hurt anyone.

  “You ask if I am here because of your fortune, and I will tell you the truth.” He paused a moment. “I do consider us friends, Miss Morrington, but my more specific attention is indeed partly influenced by the fact that your circumstance could be a boon to my own.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise, and he continued, not wanting to lose his momentum or his courage.

  “I am without security, as I believe is also whispered about amid the ton: they track heiresses with the same ferocity as they track penniless men. I have always known I would need to marry a woman with means, and therefore I have kept my formal attentions focused in that way.” Her jaw hardened, but he hurried to speak before she could shred him. “However, if I possess no other attribute to offer a woman, let me assure you that I know my own mind and my own heart enough to know that I could never marry only for fortune. I will remain a bachelor all my life if the only other choice is a loveless marriage.”