Free Miss Mistletoe by Erin Knightley

proposal . . . and just as much time trying to make herself forget those silly dreams. It was almost cruel of him to even suggest it.
    “Do you agree, my dear?”
    Cece’s head jerked up. Blast, what had he asked her? “Yes, of course, Papa.” Whatever plant arrangement she had just agreed to, it was sure to be fine, knowing her father.
    “Excellent. Are you ready for diction?”
    Diction? Already? She laid down Finn’s letter and retrieved her quill and a fresh sheet of paper. “I’m ready.”
    “Dear Lord Edgerton. There is no better place to begin one’s journey toward constructing an exemplary conservatory than to view examples of exactly that. As a friend of Raleigh’s, you are most welcome to come visit us in Hampshire and explore our own humble facilities. I believe once we know the specimens which interest you, we may go about designing a plan.
    “I’m certain the harvest is a busy time for both of us, but perhaps November would suit? Respectfully, etcetera, etcetera.”
    Cece had stopped writing right around the time Papa had said the word
visit
. For the first time in her life, she was glad for her father’s blindness. If he would have seen the look on her face, he would have known in an instant that something was amiss.
    “Cecilia, what is the matter?”
    Her gaze snapped up to him. How had he known? “Er, nothing. Why do you ask?” Guilt colored her voice as surely as a sunset tinted the sky. She pressed her lips together. She had done nothing
wrong,
for heaven’s sake.
    “You stopped writing. Is there something the matter with the quill?” Even though she knew he could only see shadows and hints of light, the way his gaze was fastened on her, she would swear he was looking right through her.
    “Yes—I, um, managed to bend the nib. I didn’t want to interrupt you and have you lose what you wished to say. Let me just get another quill and I’ll finish writing this out.”
    What on earth was she going to do? If she wrote what her father wanted, Finn would think she wanted him here. That was completely unacceptable. She had only just been able to walk away from him last time; how could she bear to have him here, in her home, all the while knowing that he wasn’t for her?
    She riffled through the drawer, pretending to find a new quill and then making a production of getting back to writing. How big of a sin, exactly, would it be if she wrote back saying they would be happy to assist his selection from afar? She resisted the urge to glance out the window to see if storm clouds were suddenly forming above the house. Stifling a sigh, she closed the drawer and straightened. Of course she couldn’t do such a thing. Her father’s trust in her was complete, and she couldn’t abuse it.
    Finn must have known that when he wrote in the first place. The realization rather made her feel like a puppet.
    As she began scribbling out the rest of her father’s missive, it occurred to her that, though she couldn’t alter his words, there was nothing that said she couldn’t add a message of her own.
    After signing Papa’s name, she glanced up, bit her lip, then hastily added a postscript.
    Finn, This request is my father’s, and his alone. My feelings remain unchanged.
    There. If he decided to come now, he would know that her heart would remain unengaged. She pressed her lips together as she sanded the foolscap. If only
she
knew such a thing.
    She pushed away the rush of feelings that slid through her at the thought of him walking through her home, filling her space with his presence. She had Papa to think of. Although . . . perhaps seeing her in her home, seeing how much Papa needed her, would make him see more clearly why she could never consider his suit.
    Part of her hoped for just that . . . but a bigger part—the part she wasn’t quite willing to acknowledge—was already anxious for November to arrive.
    Dear Squire McCrea,
    I can scarcely think of a better way to begin than with a visit