Spinster Ever After (The Spinster Chronicles #7) - Rebecca Connolly Page 0,55

I’ve just finished finalizing a contract with a shipping company in Preston to expand our business and increase our holdings. In a few years, I shall be in a position to buy them out entirely, leaving my father with the mill while I oversee shipping. My brother has caught the drive we share, and time will only tell how he takes part.”

Charlotte watched Mr. Riley in abject fascination, finding him far more interesting now than she had only this morning, and he had been marvelously intriguing then. “I find I’m rather impressed, Mr. Riley. To come from the working class and rise up the ranks in fortune and status to now be fairly wealthy, influential, and successful is an astonishing feat. And yet you intend to rise further still? Quite remarkable, I must say.”

He looked at her with a quizzical smile, something akin to hesitation in his eyes. “You don’t see me as somehow a lesser creature because my fortune comes from trade?”

“Why should that lower you?” she shot back. “I procure all sorts of things from trade, and it has never been logical to me that somehow the profit from my purchases and those of others should be of a lowering status to those who created them. No, I am rather fascinated with trade, and with those who know how to use it to their advantage.”

“I have no breeding,” he pointed out. “My grandfather worked in the mill all his life.”

She raised a brow at him. “And my grandfather shined his own silver when his butler could no longer do so rather than sack him and find a new butler. Resourcefulness is not a crime, and is highly lacking in the upper classes, I find.”

Mr. Riley grinned at her, outdoing the sun with its splendor. “You call me rare, Miss Wright. But I think you might be somehow even rarer.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much,” she scoffed, averting her eyes to glance around the park. “I’m the same sort of bird that flits around every ballroom in London.”

“If you say so, but I’ve never seen a bird quite like you. Not ever.”

Charlotte felt her cheeks warm and glanced up at him again, smiling with more warmth than she thought she could muster at this hour of the morning, or on this particular walk. “Would you like to accompany Mama and I to Bond Street, Mr. Riley? I should very much like the continued pleasure of your company.”

“It would be my pleasure entirely, Miss Wright. I am quite at your disposal.”

Chapter Thirteen

Balls are the perfect opportunity to meet new people, get better acquainted with those you know, and to experience new things. Mind you behave, however. There is nothing like a ball to start rumors.

-The Spinster Chronicles, 24 January 1820

Two weeks in Miss Palmer’s regular company, and Michael thought he might just be the happiest he had been in four or five years.

What an unusual feeling.

Not that he’d seen her every day, or officially claimed courtship, but he had called on her three days last week and two this week, and were they not attending the same ball this evening, he would have called tomorrow, as well. He’d have to make his suit official soon, or speculation would do the thing for him.

If he did take on a courtship, and he was quite sure he would, he could have been at the Greensley home at this moment waiting to escort them all here. Instead, he was standing by and watching the entrance to the room, waiting for them.

At least Lord Eden provided well, and the supper would prove exquisite when it was time.

Tyrone had begged Michael to come early, though as yet, Michael had not seen his friend to inquire as to why the request had been made. It was most unfair. The musicians were still tuning their instruments, so there was not even dancing as yet to distract him from what seemed to be endless waiting.

He caught sight of Lieutenant Henshaw striding by and smiled. “Henshaw.”

The man turned at his name, then returned his smile with a quick one of his own. “Sandford, good evening. You haven’t seen the Mortons yet, have you?”

“I have not, but we are among the early arrivals, you and I.”

“True, true, I suppose,” Henshaw muttered distractedly, tugging at his pristine cravat. “Waiting is torment.”

Michael nodded in agreement. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Henshaw looked at him with some interest. “Who are you waiting on?”

“Miss Palmer,” he said without shame, not seeing a need