Free Maggie MacKeever by Lady Sweetbriar Page B

morning—though, admittedly, how could you know?”
    Her father’s uncritical acceptance of her hypothetical nuptials caused Miss Clough to look even more wry. “Nikki thinks I should set my cap for Sweetbriar. What, Papa, would you say to that?”
    “Sweetbriar?” Sir Avery obviously searched his memory for a figure to match up with the name. “Ah, the gudgeon. I shouldn’t think a gudgeon would do for you, my dear, but you must act as you think best.”
    “I am trying to do just that.” To insure that her father awarded her his full attention, Miss Clough placed herself in front of the Egyptian tomb toward which his eye had strayed. “It has occurred to me that you may not be following the inclination of your own heart, Papa.”
    “I?” Abruptly, Sir Avery’s interest waned. “Are you warning me against Nikki? Child, I beg you will not act the pea-goose. If that was all you wished to speak to be about—”
    Clytie could not ignore so obvious a dismissal. She shrugged and retraced her steps through the Museum until once more she stood outside. She should have known better than to approach her father on so personal a matter, Clytie thought. He was a determinedly private man, and not inclined to share his sentiments with even his own offspring.
    About those sentiments, Clytie was concerned. Sir Avery, for all his brilliance of intellect, was an unworldly man. Clytie was fond of her father, and she didn’t want to see him hurt. Surely Nikki would not deliberately hurt anyone? Alas, Clytie could not rid herself of the remembered camaraderie between Lady Sweetbriar and Mr. Thorne. Too, Clytie recalled Nikki’s excitement upon learning of Mr. Thorne’s return to England, an excitement Clytie understood all too well, for she was experiencing considerable difficulty in putting that provoking individual from her own mind. Even now, she could conjure up in an instant a vision of his swarthy features and pale blue eyes, could almost hear his mocking tones. “Oh, Hades!” Clytie muttered aloud.
    “Hades?” inquired an amused voice, which was not nearly as mocking as Clytie had recalled. Guiltily, she raised her gaze from the pavement to his face. “Shame, Miss Clough! Not that I would mind if you said much worse. You do not seem especially pleased to see me, ma coccinelle.”
    “Why should I be glad to see you, sir? You have a very aggravating habit of putting me in the wrong.” Because she was no good liar, Clytie lowered her eyes to the important lapels of Mr. Thorne’s black coat. “If you will excuse me, I am in a hurry.”
    Unabashed, Mr. Thorne placed a finger under Clytie’s chin. Amazed by his temerity, she widened her eyes. “You are telling me whiskers, Miss Clough. Young ladies who are in a great hurry do not spend several moments blankly staring at the pavement. Will you tell me what is troubling you? I am very good at sorting out tangles.”
    Very belatedly, Miss Clough jerked her head away, and flushed to realize how much she’d enjoyed Mr. Thorne’s boldness. Since she could hardly confess that Marmaduke himself was no small part of her problems, she said: “It is nothing with which you need to concern yourself.”
    If Miss Clough had intended that professed disinterest would deflect Mr. Thorne’s persistence, she was very rapidly proved wrong. “I must concern myself with everything about you, Clytie,” retorted that exasperating gentleman. “Oh yes, I have decided I must call you Clytie. ‘Miss Clough’ is far too formal, and you do not like to be called my little ladybug. Since I am to call you Clytie, you must call me Duke. Nor must you accuse me of moving too quickly for you; I know I am. But I have followed you all the way here, and waited for you to emerge, and it is very obvious that something exercises your mind.”
    Fascinated, Miss Clough observed her accostor, who even as he spoke had taken her arm and led her down the street. “Trying it on much too rare and thick,” she