“Then the rumors are true?” she asked, unable to resist being drawn into this line of conversation, to know him better. “You captained a ship?”
He nodded. “My mother descended from a long line of Dutch traders, and my uncles were only too happy to show me the ropes. I took to it like a duck to water.”
An undeniable note of bitterness underlay his admission. A bitterness that spoke of a life lost, not one gained. She understood something essential to this man: he had no desire to be a viscount. He would be sailing a ship this very moment, experiencing the adventure such a life offered, if he had his way.
In its stead, he had London, a gray sort of life. While she experienced the vibrancy of London, she could understand that a man accustomed to sailing the seven seas would feel hemmed in by the city’s walls. Sympathy for him stabbed through her. She knew what it was to have one life suddenly end and another begin without asking for permission.
“I can see how the lure of freedom and adventure would be impossible to resist,” she said.
“Not impossible.”
A wry smile curled about his lips, and she intuited his meaning. He was here, a viscount, in England. Not impossible.
She followed his lead and tried to lighten the mood. “And now you’re learning how to be quite the conventional viscount?”
“Oh, yes,quite. Complete with club memberships, fine horseflesh, and a proper wife.”
Wife. The word, like the prick of a needle, shocked Olivia upright. “A wife?”
“Really, a stepmother for my daughter.”
“A stepmother for your daughterisa wife to you.” The seed of an unwanted emotion sprouted open within Olivia, and she tamped it down. She wouldn’t give it water or light to grow. How entirely inappropriate, silly even, to feel jealousy over a man who wasn’t and never would be hers.
“I haven’t given that part much thought, to be honest. It could be a matter of semantics.”
“Hardly.”
“Well, the Dowager has a great number of proper candidates.”
There was another word.Proper. “I’m sure she does.”
Olivia fixed her attention on smudging out a fingerprint, likely her own, on the shiny finish of the pianoforte. Why did her tone have to sound so pettish? What was Lord St. Alban’s proper wife hunt to her anyway?
The Duke strode into the room with the housekeeper, who looked flustered, flattered, and delighted all at once, and spared Olivia from having to consider an answer. “The most capable Mrs. Landry has the answers to all our questions,” the Duke announced. As if he’d only just registered the positioning of Olivia and Lord St. Alban, his gaze darted back and forth between them. “Have I interrupted something?”
“Your timing couldn’t be better,” Olivia said, perhaps too fast on a wave of relief. “I need to get on with my day before it gets away from me.”
She pushed herself off the pianoforte and neatly sidestepped the towering Lord St. Alban—and his gorgeous, capable hands. She crossed the room to land a quick kiss on the Duke’s cheek. Without another glance toward Lord St. Alban, she fled the room in a graceless exit, if ever there was one.
Her heels clicking across gleaming white marble, she gave her head a tiny shake. The sanctuary of her studio lay ahead. She tethered the dashing and problematic Lord St. Alban to the far reaches of her mind.
Where he belonged.
Chapter 6
Next day
Jake shifted in the unforgiving wooden seat constructed for the proportions of a school-aged child and attempted to find a measure of relief.
In the usual course of events, he suspected viscounts didn’t submit to such treatment. However, the formidable headmistress, Mrs. Bloomquist, had left him here, and he dared not risk incurring her wrath . . . or, at least, any more than he already had.
Their meeting had begun on a promising enough note. At his request, the Dowager had arranged a tour with Mrs. Bloomquist of The Progressive School for Young Ladies and the Education of Their Minds. After yesterday’s encounter in the Duke of Arundel’s study, he’d realized his preferred plan of gaining access to Lady Olivia through that mentorship was doomed to fail. The blasted woman was slippery as water streaming across smooth stone. So, today, he’d proceeded with his other possibility: to seek her out through the school. And, miraculously, the school had proven an ideal fit for Mina.
Half an hour into the tour, however, Mrs. Bloomquist had asked the fateful question, “And Miss Radclyffe’s age?”
Jake hadn’t hesitated. “Fifteen years next month.”
“Lord St. Alban.” A sour frown twisted the woman’s mouth. “Miss Radclyffe is well advanced beyond the admissions age for prospective students. I’m afraid you will have to look elsewhere for your daughter’s educational needs. A reputable finishing school would be a better match.”
