I … well, as I wrote m’mother, I mean to make Miss Moorely, my wife.” His lordship’s heartbeat quickened. His nerves felt frazzled as he stopped himself from shouting. He managed to maintain a relatively calm exterior and answered, “Of course, you do.” He studied him, “Do you have reason to believe that Miss Moorely will accept your suit?” “Well, as to that …” Freddy blushed. “There is never any saying what Serena has in her mind.” He shrugged. “I don’t mean to give up until she realizes that I am the only man that can make her happy.” “I see. So, are you telling me she has not given you reason to believe she will accept?” his lordship asked softly, and he felt compelled to lean forward. What was she up to? Was her reticence a trick—a cunning trick to keep Freddy on the line while she scouted other more desirable suitors? He had no doubt at that moment that Serena Moorely was leading his nephew a lively dance, keeping him on a string, making certain … making certain of what?
