Free Murder in Thrall by Anne Cleeland Page B

sweet compliment, and much appreciated. She smiled and disclaimed, “Faith, I suppose it’s not a bad idea. In the first ten minutes of a blind date you know whether it’s hopeless, but by then you’ve committed to the whole evenin’. This saves you a great deal of time and trouble.” She paused. “And I know for a fact they’re going to serve plum cake, which is an added incentive, as I couldn’t possibly date anyone who likes plum cake.”
    “Are you seeking a companion?”
    She was startled by the tenor of the question, but his interest seemed genuine and she didn’t want to embarrass him by being embarrassed. Choosing her words, she replied, “I feel obligated to make a push, I suppose. It’s a bit difficult for me to mix with people—” she halted abruptly, wishing she could take the words back. Doyle, she warned herself in horror, you knocker , don’t speak of it—
    But he said with much sympathy, “Yes, I imagine it is.”
    For some reason, she felt the sting of tears and had to compose herself for a moment; she was a solitary soul for all the obvious reasons and she was touched that he understood. Of course, he was an oddity himself—they were kindred spirits, in a way. With an effort, she pulled herself together and said lightly, “I’d invite you to come along, but it’s through the Holy Mother Church and you’d throw a rare wrench into the works.”
    He tilted his head forward and contemplated the house for a moment. “I have a different sort of problem, meeting someone.”
    This was unexpected. Why, I believe we are having a personal conversation, she thought in surprise. “You astonish me—is it the title or your handsome face?” Acton held a barony that went back generations; it was probably awarded for beating down the pesky Irish.
    He reacted to her teasing with a small smile but continued, “You would be amazed how many insincere women are very good at pretending to be sincere.”
    “I believe it,” she said readily. “We meet a good many of them.”
    He nodded. “Yes, we do. But I am also expected to make a push.”
    Doyle shook her head in sympathy. “Poor us. It is a truth universally acknowledged, sir.”
    As he turned to face her again, she noted that all thought of watching the house had been abandoned in favor of discussing the moribund state of their respective love lives—Jack the flippin’ Ripper could emerge from the Grantham address and she would bet her teeth that the illustrious chief inspector would not notice.
    “I think the solution to our mutual problem is to marry each other.” His dark eyes met hers.
    There was a moment of stunned silence whilst she could feel her heartbeat in her throat. Holy Mother of God; he was dead serious, and he knew she knew he was dead serious. Tamping down panic, she bit her fingernail and pretended to consider it. “I wouldn’t have to worry about makin’ detective sergeant.”
    “We are compatible,” he continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “We spend a great deal of time together already; our lives would not change very much.”
    For once, she could think of nothing to say, flippant or otherwise. She had never noticed how long his eyelashes were.
    “I think it a very sound idea.” They regarded each other in silence, and Doyle wondered if anyone had ever died from excessive blushing. When she did not respond, he reached over and put his hand on her arm, briefly. “I’ll not press you; think on it, please.”
    “All right.” She added as an afterthought, “sir.”
    As he pulled the car out, he glanced over at her. “You look as though you have been put to the stake.”
    She rallied. “No; my feet are too cold.”
    He smiled. “Better.”
    With a monumental effort, she calmed herself. “It’s not—not that I don’t appreciate the offer; I am surprised, is all.”
    “Understood. I’ll drop you home.”
    He did drop her home—he knew where she lived. He walked her to the security gate, and she wondered