Miss Lindel's Love by Cynthia Bailey Pratt Page B

lordship. Had it merely been malice that had engendered that remark? How odd that it should strike so near to the gold of truth.
    She fell asleep toward dawn, still torn even in her dreams between her love for Lord Danesby and this new light on his character. She seemed to see him as a monk one moment and a libertine the next, praying in one guise, and inviting laughing women of low morals to sit on his knee in the other. Maris couldn’t see herself anywhere. She certainly wasn’t present in the cloister, though she watched every step Lord Danesby took. Nor could she find herself among the multitude of women thronging about him where he sat on a golden throne.
    When she awoke at last, her mouth was dry and she could scarcely manage to open both eyes at the same time. The cup of hot tea that the hired maid presented did help to awaken her. By the time she came downstairs to greet Mrs. Paladin and Lilah, her spirits were rebounding. Lord Danesby had found her interesting enough to remain by her side for an hour, surely more than any other girl present last night could boast.
    “Dear, dear Maris,” Mrs. Paladin said. “You must come and see the tributes that were delivered this morning. Charming! If only your mother were here. Now, you must immediately write notes of thanks to all your admirers. You mustn’t appear haughty or in any way vain.”
    “No, of course not,” Maris murmured, raising up on tiptoe to see around Mrs. Paladin.
    Lilah took pity on her. “She can’t write notes until she sees what she’s thanking them for. Mother, let her come in.”
    Bunches of flowers lay on the polished oak of the morning room table. Some were quite formal in design, looking, to Maris’s eyes, beautiful enough for a ball. Others were loose sheaves of hyacinth or calendula or other heralds of spring. Each bore a card. By the time she sorted through them, she realized that at least six gentlemen had thought it worthwhile to send her a bouquet. “How kind everyone is,” she said. “Oh, look. These are from Sir Rigby Barrington. I didn’t even dance with him.”
    She missed Mrs. Paladin’s expression, but the older woman’s tone was cold. “I am well aware of that. In truth, I meant to read you something of a scold regarding your manners.”
    “At least she threw him over to dance with Lord Danesby, Mother,” Lilah said, turning the pages of the Gazette.
    “Kindly don’t be vulgar, Lilah,” Mrs. Paladin said, but perhaps her daughter’s reminder of Maris’s triumph softened her. “Never mind,” she added. “If Sir Rigby is willing to forgive you, so am I.”
    Lord Danesby had not sent any flowers. She told herself she didn’t care. To have danced with him, to have been the sole focus of his brilliant eyes however briefly, was more of his attention than she’d ever dreamed she’d have. Even if she should never see him again, she had enough to fuel her happiness for a lifetime. Yet, despite that, she couldn’t keep a slight pang of disappointment at bay. It would have crowned her first appearance to have been able to write to Lucy that she’d received even the humblest drooping daisy from Lord Danesby.
    The letter she wrote to her mother made no mention of their landlord. She also concealed behind a screen of cheerful words her growing anxiety about Mrs. Paladin. Her notions of a proper young lady’s actions did not march very well with Mrs. Lindel’s. Mrs. Paladin was always urging Maris to be less reserved, to show more vivacity. “Don’t stand there like a sacrificial maiden, girl. Smile at the gentlemen. Flirt with your fan. Let them see your interest.”
    Lilah demonstrated these arts to perfection in the privacy of their rooms, yet Maris did not notice her actually using any of these techniques when evening brought about another formal affair. Though Lilah was punctiliously polite, missing none of the forms of polite society, she did not show any particular rapture at being solicited to dance. The dry