The next day, he sets me to work on French, and leaves me to it. I know he’s very busy, but it’s hard to learn a language if you don’t hear it spoken. I decide to give him a choice. Get me a governess or let me out of the schoolroom entirely. Of course, I daren’t put it in those terms, but I am going to talk to him about it.

He comes up later to see how I’m progressing, and I explain my need to hear the language.

“I think I need a governess,” I tell him.

“No. There are enough busybodies around here already.”

“Then can I leave the schoolroom forever?”

“No,” he tells me.

“Please? I read and do math. Isn’t that enough?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“When am I ever going to speak French?”

And he says, “One never knows. Besides, don’t you want to be accomplished?”

“Accomplished? What means ‘accomplished?’”

“It means good at things.”

“Like what?”

“Like dancing,” he tells me, “which you are good at, and drawing, and painting with watercolors, and playing the pianoforte. Things like that.”

“Isn’t it a little late to learn the pianoforte?” I ask him. “Does not it take years to learn?”

“Yes. But what about the other things?”

“I am good at needlework, and I am good at dancing, so the devil take the other things.”

He looks shocked, and grabs me by the arm and forces me up the stairs. He marches me into my bedchamber, and goes to the washstand and gets the soap, wetting it in the water there.

“Open your mouth,” he tells me.

I shake my head, my lips clamped shut.

“Gypsy, open it, or I shall beat you.”

I think of the cane, and I think having soap in my mouth will be far less unpleasant, so I do as he asks and open my mouth.

He puts the soap in and tells me to bite down on it and hold it in my mouth until he says I can remove it. I stand there with the soap in my mouth while he lectures me on using bad language.

“No decent man will ever marry you if you speak like that,” he says at last. “Not even if you’re rich.”

I lower my head, and I can’t help but start to cry. He takes the soap out of my mouth and tells me I may rinse it out, if I like. I do, and he stands there watching me. He asks me why I’m crying, but in a much gentler voice.

“I have displeased you.”

“Yes, you have, but I forgive you. Just don’t use that language again. Not even Cahill would find it funny.” He then gives me his handkerchief and sits down with me on a chest at the foot of the bed. “I take your point about learning French. Let’s put that on hold until I have time to teach you myself.”

“What will I do instead?”

“You don’t have to do anything,” he tells me. “Or, find a way to occupy your time.”

“May I pay morning calls?”

“Take a maid with you and you can.” he says.

“Can I take Emerson instead?”

“As you wish. Now, I’ve got to get back to my work. I’m fairly certain you know the rules and can safely be left alone.”

“Yes, Daddy,” I tell him.

He gets up and kisses the top of my head, and then he leaves me sitting there alone.

The first thing I do is ring for clean water, and then I go through the wardrobes. Apparently, Lady Davenport was fond of green, for there are gowns and dresses in all kinds of shades of green. Taking out the things I will never wear and keeping only the emerald green ball gown I find there, I stack them on the bed. I don’t over-like the shade of mustard yellow I find on a dress and spencer there, either, and get rid of it, as well. When I’m done, I have one of the footmen carry everything up to the attic and I stuff it all into a trunk. While I’m doing that, I find a beautiful swan’s-down muff that will come in handy when the weather gets cooler. When I get back downstairs, Emerson is standing in the middle of the room looking amazed.

“You’ve taken away the ugly dresses,” she says.

“Yes. I didn’t like them.”

“Lord Davenport will be mad as fire.”

“No, he won’t. He gave me permission to occupy my time, and that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. I plan to make some other changes, too.”

“Such as?”

“I’m going to change the hangings to red, instead of this awful green I find everywhere. First, I must speak to Foster, to see if he knows where I can get new ones made.”

Foster directs me to a firm in London, and recommends I ask them for some pattern cards showing what they have available. I fancy I already know what I want, and a few days later, I receive a reply from them.

“What’s that?” asks Daddy over the breakfast table. When I tell him, he asks me to get them out and show them to him. We push aside our breakfast dishes and examine the cards together.

“This,” I say, picking one out of the stack. “This is exactly what I was looking for.”

“Red brocade?”

“Yes. It will look lovely in that room.”

He sits there thinking about if for a moment or two, and just when I’m beginning to think he’ll reject my idea, he nods.

“Let’s go look,” he tells me, and we finish our breakfast and hurry upstairs. The maids have already been, and we enter my bedchamber and shut the door.

“Yes,” he tells me, looking around the room. “I think the red would go well in here.”

“May I change the ornaments in the room, too?” I ask him.

“What have you in mind?”

“I like those shepherdess figurines in the morning room.”

“Well, I don’t see why not. We don’t use that room all that much.”

“I’ll put these in there,” I tell him. “I feel bad indulging in so much sin with a lot of angels looking on.”

“Oh? Are gypsies religious?”

“Not as such, but we do believe in God. The thing is, they won’t let us into most churches. They call us filthy heathens and run us off.”

“Would you like to attend church?” he asks.

“Not really, but I’d like to be married in church, like the fine lady you’re trying to turn me into.”

He smiles and pats my hand. “We’ll see what we can do. Any other changes you’d like to make?”

“Yes, but it might anger you.”

“Let’s have it.”

“Can we take your wife’s portrait down and rehang it in the gallery?”

I almost take a step back, because I don’t want to be pulled over his lap and punished. I don’t, though. I stand fast, even though he does look angry for a moment, but once he has time to consider the idea, he agrees.

“To own the truth, I’d forgotten it was even there.”

“Thank you,” I tell him.

“Where’s Emerson?” he asks.

“She had to go to town for some things.”

“Good. Go lock the door, and then come give Daddy a kiss.”

“What about the angels?”

“Once more won’t kill them.”

We spend about half an hour in bed, and then we get up so Daddy can help me dress again. After that, we both go about our business, he shut up in his study with Mr. Cahill, and me changing the ornaments in my bedchamber and ordering new hangings for the room.

Emerson gets back before it’s time to dress for dinner, and she looks at the changes I’ve wrought so far.

“How charming. And did the master agree to the new hangings?”

“Yes. I’ve ordered them, and there will be a man here to measure in a day or two. And guess what else?” I say.

“What?”

“I’ve convinced him to move his wife’s portrait to the gallery.”

“Now, Miss, don’t set your sights too high. The master moves in the first circles, and it’s not likely he’ll take a girl fresh out of the schoolroom to wife.”

“Why not?” I ask her. “Miss Lizzy says it’s common for men to wed their wards once they’re old enough to marry.”

“You and Miss Lizzy ought not to read so many novels.”

“No, it’s true. She told me of several she knows of.”

“Perhaps I should tell the master that you need a chaperone.”

I pull away. “Don’t you dare.”

“Well, it seems to me you could use some looking after.”

“Why? Because I think he’s handsome and would make a fine husband someday? If not for me, then someone else? There will come a time when he’ll be thankful I had him move that portrait.”

“That’s as may be, but you’d better come over here and let me finish buttoning your gown,” she tells me. “The master don’t like his dinner to be late.”

I let her finish dressing me, and then I go down to dinner with a hasty step. Emerson is right, he’ll be mad as a bear if I keep him from his meal.

“Finally,” he says, when I appear in the drawing room. “Come along.”

He puts his elbow out to escort me into the dining room. We take our seats and Daddy asks what the cook has prepared for dinner.

“Hare Soup and a Guinea Fowl,” says Foster, with a deferential bow.

“What about dessert?”

“Vol-au-Vent of Pears.”

“Very good.”

Of course, there is the usual array of side dishes, and Foster and the footman serve us.

“Did you get things moved around?” asks Daddy.

“Yes. The angels are safely in the morning room and the shepherdesses are in my bedchamber. They’ll look well with the hangings I’ve ordered, don’t you think?”

“To be sure.”

We make small talk while we dine, and then he asks me if he might invite Mr. Cahill to lunch tomorrow.

“Of course. That’s not for me to say.”

“You are the lady of the house now.”

“Am I?”

“Don’t look so surprised,” he tells me. “You know you are.”

“I hope I know how to go on.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine. By the way, I was thinking of sending you to finishing school.”

Blinking over at him, I feel as if I can’t have heard him right.

“Finishing school? And go away from you and Foster and Emerson? No, thank you.” Foster and the footman, whose name is George, look at each other. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, George. Of course, I would miss you, too.”

“Thank you, Miss.”

I glance over at Daddy, and he looks a little displeased.

“What do you expect?” I ask him. “When you spring it on me so?”

“I expect you to at least consider the idea.”

“All right. I’ll take it under consideration. Why does this idea occur to you suddenly?”

“Because I’m not too sure you’re ready to make your come-out.”

I twist the edge of the napkin on my lap and shake my head. “Why? What have I done wrong?”

“Nothing, my dear. I only thought you might like the idea. You’d meet other girls just like yourself, from the very best families.”

“Is not Miss Lizzy a good enough friend?”

“Of course she is, but don’t you want to meet more?”

“No. Cannot we talk about this later? You’re spoiling my appetite.”

Daddy falls silent then, but it’s a seething silence, one that tells me I’ll most likely be punished tonight.

“I bought you a present,” he tells me. “I had to have it special made.”

“Thank you. I can’t wait to see it.”

After dinner and the customary drawing room activities, we can finally go up to bed. Daddy whispers to me on the stairs, telling me he wants me to send Emerson to bed as soon as may be possible.

I nod, but I dawdle getting undressed and into bed. Except for my usual Saturday reminders, I haven’t been spanked in a long time, and I feel sure he’s going to spank me tonight.

When I finally tap on the adjoining door, he opens it and pulls me in.

“Take that silly nightcap off and unbraid your hair.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I start sniffling as I untie the strings on my cap,

“What are you sniveling about?” he asks me.

“You’re going to punish me.”

“You’re dashed well right about that.”

I finally get my hair unbraided, and he comes and fluffs it up, letting it fall naturally. He grabs my upper arm and marches me up the stairs to the attic, which is now kept locked. He produces the key and unlocks it, and I wonder what on earth we can be doing in the attic.

He pushes me up the rest of the stairs and guides me over to the other end of the attic. There sits some strange contraption I’ve never seen before.

“What is that?”

“Your spanking bench.”

My heart sinks. I feel like crying again, but I’m too frightened at the moment. He tells me to get undressed and shows me where to put my arms and legs. There are straps at each location, and I kneel on the bench and get myself in position. Daddy buckles each of the straps around my wrists and ankles, and another, special one that goes around my waist to hold me down.

“Please, Daddy.”

“Shut your mouth. You wish to contradict me in front of my own servants? Then there are consequences.”

I hear him unbuckling his belt, and I pull at the restraints. They are firmly secured to the bench. There will be no escape for me, so I try to calm myself. It’s not the first time he’s used the belt on me. It will be painful, but not fatal. I lay my head on the leather padding and wait.

The first lash falls, and I can tell he’s very, very angry. He doesn’t give me time to react, he just continues whipping me, hard and fast. I can hardly move in the restraints, so I lay there, vulnerable, my bottom the perfect target.

Finally, he stops. I’ve squirmed, but I have not cried.

“Your gypsy pride again?”

“No. You told me not to cry.”

“Did I? What an ogre I have become.”

“Will you let me loose now?” I ask.

“Not yet. Daddy has a few surprises in store.”

I struggle again in vain. He laughs.

“You can’t escape,” he tells me needlessly.

“May I cry, at least?”

“If you wish.”

“It’s not the ginger again, is it?”

“No, but that’s a very good idea. It’s your old favorite, the plug, and perhaps a bit more spanking.”

“No, please. No more.”

“Do you not like your little surprise?”

He comes up beside me and starts rubbing my bottom, rubbing it and then pinching big handfuls. I see him with a can of some type, and he comes and sits on this stool that is built into the rear of the bench. I feel so exposed, because I know my cunny is at eye level, sitting on this stool. He reaches out and touches my outer lips, runs a finger over them. I feel myself respond, but I hate myself for it.

“Ah. You’re ready for me already, I see.”

I feel myself blush, and give an angry wiggle, trying to shake off his touch.

“No, no, my sweet little Gypsy. You mustn’t try to evade my touches. Or my kisses.” Suddenly, I feel his lips on my bottom, and he kisses each cheek. This puts him in a playful mood, and he greases me up and inserts the plug. “There you are,” he tells me. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Daddy,” I lie.

Next, he inserts the phallus and buckles a leather harness he had made around my waist to hold it in.

“Remember when I told you I could fill all three of your holes?”

“Yes.”

“Now I will prove it.”

He gets up and comes around to stand in front of me. He undoes his breeches, and holds his manhood out to me. I strain to get it into my mouth, for I know that’s what he wants of me, but he’s too far away.

“Look how eager you are to suck my cock,” he says, moving closer, close enough for me to take it into my mouth. I do, and he doesn’t wait until I’m ready, he just shoves it all the way into my throat. I gag, of course, but this seems to amuse him. “Daddy’s too big for such a little girl, isn’t he?”

“I just have to be ready,” I tell him.

“Yes. I can imagine. Are you ready now?”

“Yes.”

He slides it in nice and easy this time, and he grabs hold of a handful of my hair, using it as a sort of handle. He starts pumping into me, not even letting me do the work. All I am is a plaything for him, and he’s using my mouth as a substitute cunny. I tighten my lips around him, hoping it’ll go faster that way, and lucky for me, it does. He makes me drink his come, and then he pulls away.

“Daddy’s little girl is finally behaving in a pleasing manner,” he tells me. “How would you like me to ride that voluptuous bottom of yours next?”

“If it pleases you, then yes.”

He goes back around behind me and I feel him sit down on the stool again. He twists the plug inside me, and it gives me a strange sensation.

“You like that, don’t you, you little tart?”

“What means ‘tart?’”

“It’s one of your kind. A light-skirt.”

Now I really do start crying. Not only is he punishing me, now he’s being deliberately cruel.

“You made me this way,” I weep. “You made me. I was a good girl, and I was just waiting for my fiancé to come and marry me. You made me your captive and you burned my wagon, and now I can never go back.”

He doesn’t say anything, he just removes the phallus and the plug, and then he unbuckles the restraints. When I finally get off the contraption, my wrists are red. He pulls me into his arms and tries to kiss away my tears, but I try to push away.

“No, my sweet little Gypsy. Forgive me.”

“How can you call me a whore when you’re the only man I’ve ever been with?”

He thumbs away my tears and apologizes again, but I am tired of him and his apologies. My bottom is burning, and I’ve been humiliated and I just don’t even want to look at him right now. I go pick up my nightdress and take it back to the shadows to put it back on.

I say, “Perhaps you are more averse to moving your wife’s portrait than I thought.”

“No,” he tells me. “It has nothing to do with that,” but I can see that’s at least part of the reason I’ve been punished.

“What, then? You want me to go to that school so badly? I will go, but I know you’re just trying to get rid of me.” He stands staring at me silently, and I turn to him. “It will cost a lot, no? To send me to that school?”

“Yes.”

“Won’t it save you some money to keep me here and let me make my come-out? I promise I will find a husband.”

“What’s so wrong about the school? You haven’t even seen it and you’re rejecting it out of hand.”

“What about all our plans?” I ask him. “Our trip to Bristol?”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to put it off.”

“If you want me gone so badly, get me another wagon and I’ll go.”

He chuckles. “That’s one thing I won’t do.”

“Then what is it you want? I don’t understand what you want.”

“I want you to be a good girl and go get into bed.”

Tears start streaming down my cheeks, unbidden. I want to break something, but most everything is packed into trunks. I want to spit in his face, but that’s just not the kind of thing I would ever do.

“You can beat me again if you want to, but I think you’re a very cruel man, Lord Davenport. You should have left me in the nursery if you didn’t want me to grow up.”

“Go to bed, Gypsy.”

I turn around and leave him, and when I go to bed, I go to bed in the nursery. When he comes in to find me the next day, I’m playing with my dolls. I’ve cut one of the dolls’ hair short, and I’m using it as a male, making him and a female doll say rude things to one another.

“You whore,” I say for the male doll.

“There’s nothing you can say to hurt me,” says the girl doll. “There’s a name for what you are, but I don’t know it. You have no lashav.”

“What means ‘lashav?’” asks Davenport in a mocking voice.

“It means to have no shame, no honor.”

I see his eyes flash. He clearly knows the dolls represent the two of us. He turns on his heel and starts off, but over his shoulder he tells me Emerson is looking for me, that it’s almost time for breakfast.

When I get to my room, Emerson is standing there waiting for me. My bed has so obviously not been slept in, and I wonder what she’s thinking. She gets to work quickly, changing me out of my dirty pantalets and into some clean ones. She doesn’t say a word about the marks on my bottom, she just continues to dress me. She puts me into a pretty frock, one that Daddy likes, but I am not wearing it for that pig. She dresses my hair a little differently this time, leaving a few tendrils out around my face.

I go down to the breakfast parlor, careful not to even look in his direction. When I sit down, I take the seat farthest away from him.

“Gypsy...”

“You and I have nothing to say to each other,” I tell him.

“I’ll decide that, thank you.”

“Have you put the portrait back in your room yet?”

“No,” he says. “Are you done playing with your dolls today?”

“I do not know.”

“I was hoping we could do a little shopping today.”

“Shopping?” I ask him. “For what do you wish to shop?”

“We have to start thinking about the upcoming season. You don’t want to wait until the last minute or the modiste will be too busy.”

I take a piece of toast out of the little silver rack, and butter it. The last thing I want to do today is shop with this man, but I don’t want to press my luck too far or I know he’ll beat me again, probably over that contraption he had made. I don’t want to let him see that much of me again, maybe not just this day, but maybe forever.

“Gypsy? Are you attending?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Excellent. We’ll go directly after breakfast.”

After breakfast, I go up to my room to select a bonnet and get my reticule.

“Going somewhere, Miss?”

“Yes. I have to go shopping with that man.”

She nods and hands me down my most becoming bonnet, and she says, “You want to look your best so he sees what he’s missing.”

“Yes,” I say, and Emerson ties the bonnet and hands me my gloves, a pair of white kid ones. Then she hands me my parasol, the one with the cherry blossoms painted on it.

“How do I look, Emerson?”

“You look radiant, Miss.”

“Good.”

I go downstairs, and when Davenport sees me, he smiles. “You look exceptionally beautiful this morning,” he tells me.

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Still vexed with me?”

“Why, whatever can you mean?” I ask him.

“Never mind. Oh, here’s the coach at the door.”

We go outside and get in, and we have a frosty ride to the modiste’s. Even when we get there, I’m quiet, speaking only to Madame Girard. I make him pay by buying the prettiest, most expensive gowns she shows me. When we’re done, we go shopping for hats, and I find two of the loveliest bonnets I’ve ever seen. In Davenport’s attempt to defrost me, we also buy shoes to match the dresses, and then we go to the jeweler’s to pick up the ruby parure he has ordered. While I’m there, I find some diamond earrings that I fall in love with.

By the time we head for home, the coach is loaded down with packages and bandboxes. I still haven’t said a word to Davenport, and I can tell it’s starting to irritate him.

“Must I put up with this childish silence all night?”

“I am a child. I’m your little girl, remember?”

After that, I don’t say anything else until bedtime, where I answer Emerson’s questions. She seems pleased that I got at Davenport, just as she’d be pleased to get at any man. She puts me into a softly beribboned nightdress, and then she tucks me up for bed.

“Good night, Miss.”

“Good night, Emerson.”

The next day, I am told Lord Davenport would like to see me. I don’t suppose he’ll strike me or punish me, or even dare to touch me, so I go.

“Stop not talking to me,” he tells me, the instant the door is closed.

I say nothing.

“Gypsy, I’m warning you.”

Silence.

“If you don’t speak to me this instant, I’m going to have to punish you again.”

I think of that wood and leather contraption in the attic, and I can’t help but say something scathing. “Go ahead. That’s your answer for everything.”

“Will you sit down and speak to me now?”

“What do you wish me to speak about?” I ask him.

“Last night you said you loved me.”

“Last night, I drank too much wine at dinner.”

“So, you don’t love me?” he asks.

“I really couldn’t say, sir. I have no experience with such things. They tell me I’ll come to love my husband in time, but I don’t know if I will. He may very well be a man like you, a man who enjoys beating innocent women.”

“I don’t enjoy it,” he tells me. “I just feel that it’s necessary to keep my household in order. Here’s you climbing trees like a hoyden, and arguing with me in front of the servants. What more could I do?”

“And the in-between times?”

“Oh, yes. That I enjoy. And if I’m not mistaken, you do, too.”

“What choice do I have? I am but your captive.”

He gets up and paces the floor, and then he lashes out wildly. “Stop saying you’re my captive. I merely took you under my protection.”

“Protection from what? Men making unwanted advances toward me? Were you protecting my precious virginity?”

“No, but I couldn’t help myself. You’re so beautiful when you’re tricked out in all your finery.”

“Shameless and no honor,” I say again, this time to his face. “Lashav.”

“You’re the one who’s shameless, Gypsy. You enjoy it, too.”

“Why not, when you’ve already ruined me?”

His temper boils over and he says, “By God, I wish you’d shut up again.”

And I do. I sit there quietly, my lips pursed. He stops pacing and confronts me, and he’s about to say something, but then he just gives up and dismisses me.

I go back to my bedroom, and Emerson is there, ironing the ruffles on a chemisette.

“What is called a man who forces a woman to couple with him.”

“A rapist, Miss.”

“Yes.” I say, with a satisfied nod. “That is Davenport.”

“That’s a serious charge to lay on someone, ma’am. Wouldn’t you rather say he’s a seducer, a libertine?”

“Yes. Perhaps.”

Emerson begins to look nervous and sorry she gave me those words. She says, “What are you planning to do now, Miss?”

“Remain silent again.”

“How long will that last?”

“I don’t know.” I say. “As long as it needs to, I suppose.”

“Why don’t you go riding tomorrow?” she asks. “Get out of the house? I think it would do you a world of good.”

“Yes. Perhaps. Mr. Cahill invited me to ride with him sometime. Is it proper to write him a note?”

“I don’t think you ought to do that,” she tells me.

“Then perhaps I’ll just happen to be on my horse when he gets here at ten.”

Emerson nods, and I can see by her face that she approves of this course of action.

“You’d better be careful, Miss. You’ll make the master jealous.”

The next day at ten, I’m waiting outside when Mr. Cahill rides up. He tips his hat to me and pulls his horse up beside me.

“I say, Miss Lala, that is a dashing riding habit you’ve got on.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cahill. Going to work?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps your guardian can spare me for an hour.”

“If you want to ask him, I’ll wait. I’ll even hold your horse for you.”

When Mr. Cahill emerges from the house, he’s smiling. He takes the reins and gets back on his horse.

“Jack, you may return to the stables,” I say.

“No, Miss. The master said I was never to let you ride out without me or him.”

“All right, then. Ride a bit behind.”

We ride a little ahead of Jack, and I feel so naughty I want to race, but I realize that might be too much too soon, so I ride beside Mr. Cahill at a sedate pace. He asks me how I like having Davenport as a guardian, and I laugh.

“He’s very strict.”

“Is he? I suppose one would have to be with a girl your age.”

“How do you like having him as an employer?” I ask, interested in his reply.

“I like working for him. He doesn’t overwork me and he takes nothing for granted.”

I frown, for I know he takes everything for granted with me.

Mr. Cahill laughs. “Why the frown?”

“I was just thinking of something I forgot to do.”

“So, you’re not attending when I talk to you?”

“Oh, I most assuredly am,” I tell him. “Something you said reminded me of my task.”

“Well, I hope it won’t be too arduous.”

“No, it’s just a menial task. So, where do you live, Mr. Cahill?”

“I have lodgings in town,” he tells me. “Not London, I mean here, in this village.”

“Where do you come from?”

“Devonshire.”

“I am familiar with Devonshire. Which part did you live in?”

“Raven’s Claw Abbey. It sounds frightful, doesn’t it? But it’s a perfectly nice place in which to live. What about you? Where did you grow up?”

“Near Bristol,” I lie. “Mitton Hall.”

“I am not familiar with it.”

“Oh, it’s nice and pretty. A lot of trees to climb.”

He gives a shout of laughter.

“If I should ever have a wife like you, I will let her climb all the trees she likes. I’m looking to buy myself a snug little cottage, but the one I have my eye on has no trees, alas.”

“That’s too bad,” I tell him. “When will you purchase it?”

“Soon, I’m thinking. Before winter. Miss Lala, may I tell you something about myself?

“Of course. Go ahead.”

And he says, “Here’s the thing. I am a younger son, you know. I shan’t inherit a penny from my father, so I’m not what you might call a good catch.”

“I would never speak in such a vulgar fashion, but I think you’d make a delightful husband. Must you marry for money?”

“No, it’s not such a bad case as that. Your esteemed guardian pays me well, and I have a little money from an aunt on my mother’s side. What about you? Must you marry for money?”

I lean forward and pet Buttercup between the ears. She tosses her head proudly.

“Lord Davenport says he’ll provide for me. What that entails, I do not know.”

Suddenly, I feel a little sad. It’s bound to be quite a lot of money, for Davenport is very kind, for a libertine. And I don’t care how strong my feelings are towards him, I can’t have him treating me like a possession.

“Miss Lala?”

“Yes?”

“I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

I’m shocked into silence, and when I find my tongue, I tell him, “I’m not even out yet, Mr. Cahill. It’s too soon for a such a flirtation.”

“It’s no flirtation,” he says. “You have captivated me.”

“Oh, dear. I didn’t mean to.”

“That’s what makes you so charming. It’s your lack of self-consciousness.”

“What means ‘self-consciousness?’”

“It means being aware of yourself and getting easily embarrassed.”

“No,” I admit. “I do not get embarrassed easily. Lord Davenport calls me a hoyden because I do what I want. I’ll make some poor man an uncomfortable wife.”

“I’d like to speak to Lord Davenport nonetheless.”

“I don’t think he’d like that.”

He says, “He could do worse than me. He knows I’m no fortune-hunter, and I come from a good family. I’ve been working for him for seven years now.”

“As long as all that?”

“Yes.”

“Then I forbid you to speak to him, Mr. Cahill. It might be disastrous to your career.”

“When do you suppose he’ll listen to my suit?”

“Not until after I’m out, at least,” I tell him. “He wants me to have a good look around me and be sure of my heart.”

“Well, I suppose I must wait, then, but if you’re ever of a mind to marry me, just say the word and I’ll sweep you off your feet.”

“How dramatic you are.”

“I don’t want you to think you’re getting a timid man,” he tells me.

Mr. Cahill really is adorable. He’s always neatly and fashionably dressed, without being a dandy. Part of me wishes Davenport would listen to his suit, for he could use a good set-down, but that may be too much of a set-down, even for me.

“Isn’t it time to head back yet?” I ask. “We don’t want to take advantage of Davenport’s kindness.”

“No, indeed.”

We turn our horses, and Mr. Cahill is deep in thought, wondering, I suppose, how he might make his suit sound more favorable. He starts to say something and I say, “No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“No, but it won’t work. Besides, I don’t even know my own mind yet.”

That works like magic and he drops the whole thing, but when we part at the door, he whispers, “I’m still not giving up quite yet.”

“We have to bide our time.”

We say our goodbyes, and I go up to my room to change, while Mr. Cahill goes to work.