“Can I assist you with anything else, sir?”
Ajax exhaled the breath he’d been holding. He couldn’t have Miss Abbotts, nor could he finagle the purchase of an exceptionally small painting of a subject that faintly resembledher. He couldn’t even concoct a flimsy storyline with which to harrow fictional characters. What a rotten showing. “You wouldn’t have any story ideas, would you? Plot, characters, settings… that sort of thing?”
“Pardon me, sir?”
“Pay it no mind. Take care, Jones.”
Stalking into his study not long after departing Arthur Tooth & Sons, Ajax found the afternoon post waiting for him on a silver tray. Sifting through the few letters stacked there offered no distraction from his woes, as the top one was another censure from Rokeby, recounting all the salient points the publisher had made in person earlier that week. The second was a dry report from his estate manager at Gallox Castle. And finally, at the bottom, an envelope addressed in a cramped, unfamiliar hand.
Ajax raised his eyebrows as he opened the seal, hoping for something that might deliver him from these wretched feelings of restlessness. A good letter could be better than a bottle of wine, and it didn’t come with the cotton mouth and splitting headache the day after.
This was not one of those.
Sir,
Regarding your letter dated October 25, I must firmly refuse your invitation to dine. What befell my sister, God rest her soul, was a tragedy—a tragedy which surely could have been avoided, had she decided to live her life as a good Christian should. Indeed, ever since she left home at sixteen, she was a member of our family in name only. Thus, in accordance with my response to your solicitor’s request of three months ago, I have no want for connection with her daughter. Kindly refrain from writing again.
Samuel Jutton
Panic burst through his veins. A silly thing, really—as if he were the child being cast aside. It had been years since he’d last felt that. Years since the death of his mother, the shamefully younger third wife of the miserable old Sedley patriarch. He still could recall that afternoon when the headmaster had summoned him to his office and he’d found Tiberius standing there, waiting with his hands behind his back, his expression blank.
Ajax crushed the letter in his hand and strode over to the fireplace. He pitched the paper into the flames and stood watching as the pathetic refusal from Charlotte’s maternal uncle darkened and curled, then wilted away to ash.
God, what he would do for a fuck right now. He ran a hand over his face, recounting his options. His last London paramour had been two years ago, and though he’d dallied with Mrs. Edith Kenney—the wealthy widow of a northern industrialist—as recently as this past summer, he now found the notion as tempting as lukewarm broth.
Glancing at the mantel clock, he realized that dinner would be soon. He wondered if Miss Abbotts knew she must take her meals with him. He didn’t want her to go hungry. Tapping his fingers against his desk, he made a decision. A poor one, really. As most of his tended to be.
He left the study, and let his legs carry him toward the second-best bedroom in the house.
Susanna stared at the two frocks laid out on the bed before her, feeling dismal. She set her paisley shawl between them, hoping it might lend some much-needed elegance to either dress.
It didn’t. She chewed her lip, recalling Lady Matilda’s advice from earlier in the year, that paisley was very much notthethinganymore. The shawl had been a Boxing Day gift from thePritchards during her first year with them, and it was the most fashionable thing she owned. Or at least, it hadbeen.
She sighed and drifted over to the huge, gilded mirror. It had never bothered her before, being so plainly turned out, but after seeing the richness of the Sedley houses, she had begun to worry. Everyone was familiar with the boot blacking tin, with its bright colors and fancy script, but she’d never considered what that tin’s ubiquity translated to in terms of wealth. Susanna had felt positively dowdy that morning sitting in the fine, expansive conservatory next to Mr. Sedley.
Turning her head to examine her profile, she felt a rush of excitement at the memory of Mr. Sedley seated so close to her. She frowned. He was handsome, yes, and charming too. However, plenty of wealthy men in their prime were thus. What was so different about him? Or was it her—had she changed?
Suddenly she was back in Puxley House, the earl pressed against her, touching her. Her excitement burst into a warm, luxurious heat that spread throughout her body. And God help her, but she almost wished she’d lain with him. Her normally pale complexion flushed a deep pink, and Susanna turned away from the mirror in haste.
Her mind had been turning over the turmoil of the past weeks, trying to make sense of it all. She should loathe the Earl of Clifton, she knew, but now that she’d escaped, her memories had become muddied, and seemingly all she could think about was how exceptional that kiss had been. And wanton as it was, she wanted more kisses, more of that dizzy feeling.
But not from Francis de Vauville. Lord, no.
She sighed, ruing the cage she’d built for herself. All she’d ever wanted was freedom—that little cottage by the sea and her own self-determination, unencumbered by the oppressive yoke of her parents.
Unfortunately, the life of a governess left little room for romance. Or for… physicality. A shudder ran through her. If her parents knew, if Maddy knew… she’d die of shame on the spot.
And yet, the thought of continuing her life like this, bereft of the intimate touch of another… she turned back to the two sad, plain dresses laid out before her. Neither was fit for a wedding, and certainly not a wedding of the grandeur that the Sedleys would put on. Her eyes fell instead upon her favorite book,East Lynne, waiting dutifully on the bedside table for her to finish the last few chapters that evening. For all the satisfaction she derived from books that most would call silly and frivolous, Susanna had never dreamed of romance for herself, or of her own hypothetical wedding. Why, even the thought of her being kissed had, until recently, seemed as preposterous as the idea that one could communicate with the dead.
Her hand drifted up to her lips, her fingertips grazing them absentmindedly as she fretted. She ought to be worried about practical, important things, such as how she might cajole Charlotte into at least a pretense of civility in such a short time. She had no room in her life for silly, vulgar flights of fancy.
The image of Ajax Sedley—tall, with a striking jawline and a sly grin lifting one corner of his mouth—came to mind, and Susanna suddenly found herself tugging at the collar of her brown serge dress, which was just as sensible and frowzy as the two laid before her. It chafed at her, and in a moment of madness she wished to be rid of it, to be rid of…
She frowned, unsure of where this line of thinking was leading.
A sharp rap at the door made her jump, startling her as if she’d been engaged in something private or improper. She hurriedly smoothed out her skirts and called out, “Come in!”
Susanna turned just in time to see Mr. Sedley stride in, leaving the door open behind him. Taken aback by what she was certain was a breach of protocol, she had half a mind to chastise her newemployer. But the electric frisson cascading down her body held her back.
