Two days had passed since the Great Matchmaking Argument.
Two days of tea. Two days of biscuits. Two days of Rowan Hamilton sitting on his velvet sofa, wearing his "trustworthy blue coat," and systematically destroying Delaney's hopes and dreams.
The notebook was filling up with crossed-out names.
Miss Winter? Rejected. She laughed too loudly.
Lady Helen? Rejected. She read too much novels.
Miss Sarah? Rejected. She wore too much perfume.
It was a massacre.
Delaney was convinced—absolutely convinced—that he was doing it on purpose. He was sabotaging her. He was rejecting perfectly good women just to prove that no one was like his mysterious woman.
Delaney sat on a stone bench in the rose garden. She needed air. She needed quiet. If she had to listen to Rowan politely explain to another mother why her daughter wasn't "quite right," she was going to scream. And screaming was not very professional for a woman earning sixty thousand pounds.
