A Most Unusual Match by Sara Mitchell Read Free Book Online

hours, and was about to give up. Oh—” Her upper body jerked, then steadied as she wrestled against the taut line. “No, no, don’t help me. It’s very exciting, isn’t it? I hope it’s a largemouth bass. Mygrandfather is…” The rest of her words faded into the general babble.
    A small crowd gathered, blocking Dev’s view. He un hurriedly ducked beneath the gelding’s neck to better monitor Fane’s passage to shore, noting the instant the man’s attention turned from the boat captain to Miss Pickford. Poor fool, Dev thought. Fane laughed and took a step toward the siren seducing him with her fishing antics, even as a shapely debutante decked out in a ridiculous mimicry of a sailor suit wrapped possessive fingers around his forearm.
    Without warning, Miss Pickford emitted a cry of surprise, her arms stretching taut while she fought to haul in her catch, which suddenly soared out of the water in a graceful arc and landed wetly six inches from Edgar Fane’s feet.
    â€œI caught it!” she exclaimed, at last turning to face her spellbound audience. “Did you see? What kind of fish—oh.” Even from twenty feet away Dev could read the emotions tumbling across her face—surprise, sheepishness, amusement…and guilt. “Why…it’s a—a shoe! I’ve been fighting for ages, over a shoe? ”
    Laughter tittered through the group. Dev wandered closer.
    â€œHow embarrassing.” Miss Pickford addressed Fane, a becoming shade of pink tinting her cheeks the same hue as the clouds. “I beg your pardon. Did my shoe ruin yours?”
    The artful question, with its tint of good-natured humor, secured Edgar Fane’s unswerving interest, Devlin noted. Miss Pickford had cast her lures with masterful expertise.
    â€œNot at all.” Fane leaned to pick up the “catch.” “At least, not compared to this poor old thing.”
    â€œI suppose we could ask the cook at Briggs House if he’s willing to try a fillet of sole?” Miss Pickford ventured, and the entire crowd burst into appreciative laughter.
    â€œHa! Not only a lovely angler, but a humorist, as well. I’m delighted to meet you, Miss—it is Miss, I hope?”
    â€œWell…unofficially I do have a fiancé, but he’s in Europe at the moment.” After an appropriately timed pause she added, “My chaperone might not approve, but this is 1897, after all. Practically a new century, time to dispense with so many cumbersome formalities.” And the chit had the audacity to offer her hand. “Miss Pickford. I’m very glad my catch didn’t land in your face.”
    â€œMiss Pickford. Edgar Fane, at your service.” He bowed, the gesture courteous but mocking. “Tell me, Miss Pickford, do you also bowl and don bloomers to ride a bicycle? Play tennis and golf? I’m intrigued by this new concept of femininity, unashamed to engage in all manner of outdoor sport. We must get together. Here’s my card. Simpson? Where are you, man? Ah…this is Simpson, my personal secretary. Simpson, I’m hoping Miss Pickford will dine with me one evening this week. Can you check my schedule, and make arrangements? Miss Pickford? I look forward to sharing more of your exploits.”
    And with a final lingering perusal he left her with his secretary and joined the rest of his guests. They clattered down the landing and dispersed into various buggies and carriages, the secretary following a moment later. The pier was soon deserted save for Miss Pickford and a couple of other fishermen who steadfastly kept their backs to her. One of the trolleys that ran from the lake to the village clanged its pending arrival at the Briggs House hotel. Devlin’s attention never diverted from the lone woman who stood at the end of the pier. She stared out over the lake, fishing pole drooping lifelessly in her hand. Nearby, theremaining anglers