Free Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal by Grace Burrowes Page A

me.”
    “Alice…”
    “I know.” Alice waved a hand and picked up the second dress and the third. “I’m not to be braying your business about should His Grace’s footmen get to visiting in the kitchen, or Her Grace’s lady’s maid, or your sisters or brothers. Your business is yours and yours alone.”
    “You don’t agree?”
    Alice had been Maggie’s maid since Maggie had turned sixteen—roughly half Maggie’s lifetime. She was permitted a certain familiarity, in part because she never took advantage of the privilege.
    “I’m thinking a woman with as much decent family as you have, mum, shouldn’t be trying so awfully hard to keep her distance from them.”
    Alice might have said more, might have let Maggie have a rare piece of blunt Irish common sense, but the tweeny rapped on the bedroom doorjamb.
    “Beg pardon, mum, there’s a gentleman here to see you.” She passed over a silver tray, upon which lay one calling card.
    Cream linen, green ink, and all it said was: “The Hon. Benjamin Hazlit.”
    Honorable? Was he in line for a title, or did he truly have one? Maggie decided to put the question to her papa, who knew as much about the business of the Lords as Her Grace knew about the order of precedence. This would involve a trip to the ducal mansion, but needs must.
    “Put him in the family parlor, Millie, and get the teakettle going. Sandwiches and cakes both on the tray.”
    “Yes, mum.” Millie bobbed away toward the servants’ stairs, leaving Maggie feeling an odd giddiness.
    “Let him wait five minutes,” Alice said from the depths of the wardrobe. “You’re worth that much of his time.”
    “But the sooner I greet him, the sooner he’ll be gone.” Maggie squared her shoulders and prepared to meet her caller. Her first gentleman caller in fourteen years, and all he’d want to talk about was her very sorry personal business.
    ***
     
    “You’re studying my garden,” Miss Windham said. “It isn’t very far along yet, but the Holland bulbs are making a good effort.”
    “I grew up in the North,” Hazlit replied. “We appreciate any gestures in the direction of spring, from any quarter. Good day, Miss Windham, a pleasure to see you.”
    He bowed very correctly over her hand, and she curtsied with equal punctilio.
    “Where shall I put…?” A little maid stopped in the doorway, all but hidden behind a large bouquet of bright red carnations.
    Alas for my heart. Hazlit knew the sentiment associated with red carnations and had had them delivered anyway. He certainly wasn’t going to send the woman roses, for God’s sake. Carnations were durable, and they had a fresh, spicy scent that put Hazlit in mind of his hostess. She didn’t strike him as the type of lady to waste time decoding bouquets in any case.
    “On the sideboard, Millie.” Miss Windham’s lips turned up in a smile more sweet than any Hazlit had seen on her. “My youngest brother is temporarily returned to Town,” she said, taking the card from the bouquet. “Of all my siblings, Valentine is the one most likely to make the gallant gesture…”
    She fell silent while she read the card, her smile shifting to something heart-wrenchingly tentative. “This wasn’t necessary, Mr. Hazlit.”
    Regards, Hazlit. Not exactly poetry, but proof he’d upstaged at least her doting brother.
    “Perhaps not necessary, but a man can hope his small tokens are appreciated.” He glanced pointedly at the maid while he delivered that flummery, because the girl was lingering over the flowers unnecessarily.
    “That will be all, Millie. Shall we be seated, Mr. Hazlit?”
    Maggie Windham was smart enough to allow him to steer the conversation. While she poured tea and fed him a surprisingly generous cold meal, Hazlit kept the conversation social and inane. If he hadn’t been watching her closely, he’d have missed the signs of her growing impatience.
    But he was watching her closely, delighting in it, in fact. He saw her steal