A Duchess a Day (Awakened by a Kiss #1) - Charis Michaels Page 0,23

to maintain an expression of businesslike aplomb. “I’ve a trove of information for you.”

He stared at her as if she’d arrived in a damp toga. Slowly, he began to shake his head.

She chose to ignore this and eyed the many packages and parcels on the gift table. She affected an expression of Oh, I cannot wait to open these, and gingerly fingered a floppy bow.

“Pretend I am instructing you about the gifts,” she said, “but take down, if you please: Miss Tasmin Lansing, daughter of the Baron Whitney. When in London, they are in Bruton’s Place, but she rides in Hyde Park on Wednesdays. She is determined to land a husband who outpaces the earl that her sister married. Brown hair, rather tall.”

She sucked in a deep breath, ready for the next set of details, but he’d not moved. She whispered harshly, “Write it down. Miss Tasmin Lans—”

Shaw swore under his breath and snatched up the quill and paper. Without looking up, he began to scribble. She was swamped with relief.

She cleared her throat, searching her memory for the next piece. “Lady Moira Ashington, who is the daughter of Viscount Groveton. Apparently, she devotes much of her time to traveling back and forth from Bath to take the waters. But she’s in London at the moment, and she makes a habit of calling on a certain country herbalist in Wandsworth. Sometimes as often as three times a week.” Helena squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember. “She is blonde and . . . and willowy. Rather thin. The family lives in Piccadilly. Despite her interest in, er, health treatments, she apparently covets wealth, prestige, and power as much as the next girl.” Helena took a deep breath, swallowing hard.

“Just not you,” Shaw said, still scribbling.

“Right,” she said absently, searching her memory. “Are you getting this? There is one more. Miss Lisbette Twining, who is the daughter of a wealthy merchant in . . . in textiles. They are in Cork Street. She is very beautiful, with brown hair and blue eyes. And apparently she has some history with Lusk. He may know her from his own circle of friends.”

Shaw nodded and reinked his pen, writing it all down. Helena let out a relieved sigh, grateful she’d remembered the details long enough to repeat them. Even more relieved that Shaw was recording it. She’d been correct all along. Well, she’d been wildly reckless, foolhardy, and self-indulgent, but she had also been correct. That is, she would be correct, if he recorded the list and then relinquished it to her.

She repeated the names and footnotes again, speaking to the gifts. She scooped up a festooned bundle and stared at the card, trying to appear wistful and bridely.

“You cannot hover here,” Shaw said lowly, still writing. “If you mean to lurk in the shadows, you might as well take your own dictation.”

She replaced the bundle and tried to peek at his notes. He shot her an expression of What are you doing?

She frowned and turned back to the garden. “I need a reprieve after . . .” She gestured to the milling party. “Just two seconds. I hate these sorts of things.”

“I’m a servant, not your reprieve,” he said.

“You are not fifty women who think me ungrateful and disobedient and willful.”

“These women have come here bearing enough gifts to provision Scotland in winter,” he said. “If that’s not approval, I don’t know what it is.”

“The gifts are another cog in the wheel that moves me along their aristocratic wedding mill,” she said. “They are not the worst part of today, but their mountain of gifts is wasteful.” She frowned at the heavily laden table.

He was quiet for a moment, and she reminded herself that he didn’t care, not about the gifts or the terrible women. He wouldn’t ask.

“What,” he sighed, “is the worst part?”

She glanced at him, feeling another eruption in her chest. She said, “The worst part is that they pretend. They carry on as if we are all in accord.”

“You could be in accord,” he said. “With them—with all of it. England is awash in women who live full lives despite being married to . . . to—”

“Men for whom they have no respect? Men who are ignorant and dullards and drunk by noon?”

“I was going to say, their opposite.”

“Lusk is not my opposite, he is my . . . my . . . abbreviation.”

“Very poetic. What do you mean?”

“I mean, if I am forced to be his wife, my existence