His stride energetic and direct, he took his place at the low table across from her. Olivia saw a man entering his prime years. His long fingers reached for her drawings and slid them across the table. He sifted through the pages, preferring complete silence while he sorted her day’s work.
First, he examined the washerwoman, her defiance and vulnerability at odds with one another. Next, he found the old soldier and went motionless, studying and absorbing the old soldier’s battle-hardened, poverty-stricken features. Then he was on to the next sketch.
Except she hadn’t done any other sketches today.
She leaned over to catch a glimpse of what now held Jiro’s rapt attention and nearly tumbled off her seat when she saw the subject.
Lord St. Alban.
She resisted the urge to snatch the paper from Jiro’s hand. It was simply a drawing done in the middle of a sleepless night. That was all. From an entirely artistic point of view, the man had the kind of face that must have inspired the very first silhouette. It was all angles and planes. A study in geometry, really.
She should have read theLondon Diaryto settle last night’s restlessness. Instead, she’d been productive. And what had that gotten her? The portrait of Lord St. Alban now resting in Jiro’s hand.
Jiro met her gaze, a question in his eyes. “This is not the usual sort of man that you sketch.”
Before she could respond, he again bent his head to study Lord St. Alban’s profile. His eyes in constant motion across the sheet, it was as if he was committing it to memory.
Unable to restrain herself any longer, she asked, “Is there something more you wish to know about the man?”
Oh, let his answer beno. Sometimes Jiro wanted more information about a subject, usually related to coloration or the time of day the likeness was taken. If he inquired about the subject’s scent, for example, she could tell him. Cloves. And something else, too. A warm, earthy quality uniquely male, uniquely Lord St. Alban.
She would keep that last part to herself, even in the unlikely event she was asked.
Jiro’s gaze startled up to meet hers, as if he’d forgotten she sat across from him. “How do you English say this?” His eyes drifted shut. “A ghost crossed my path?”
“A ghost walked across your grave?”
He inhaled a long, deep breath and exhaled. “A grave from long ago.”
Chapter 8
Next day
A gentleman doesn’t gift a lady with property, unless she agreed to be his—
Well, she’d disabused him of that particular notion.
But what notion in particular?a tiny voice wouldn’t stop nagging. How had he been about to finish that sentence?
Unless she agreed to be his . . .wife?
Or something else?
Oh, how her heart had raced, how it raced today, faster than her feet as she strode along Curzon toward her destination, Queen Street. With so many parts of their conversation she could dwell on, it was those pesky words that refused to leave her alone. Like bad company, they popped in unexpectedly, vying for her attention with their boorish manners.
She gave her head an imperceptible shake, as if that could rattle them loose and free her of them. Free her ofhim. Except she hadn’t freed herself of him at all. She’d done the opposite.
For the hundredth time, she ran through the events of yesterday. She’d happened upon Lord St. Alban crammed into the tiniest desk imaginable for a man his size. They’d begun conversing. Miss Radclyffe needed a school. Olivia needed a powerful man’s name. An idea bloomed. A bargain was struck . . .
A flash of panic streaked through her. It wasn’t too late, no papers were signed. She could call off the deal and allow her family to take care of her for the rest of her life. It was what any woman of her class would do . . .
No. It wouldn’t do for her. She’d shaken his hand on the matter. It was a bargain sealed.
Her pace quickened, her heels a determined click-clack across gray cobblestones, her surroundings familiar—after all, she’d spent nearly her entire life in the West End—but also novel. Now that she might become an owner in this neighborhood, she took in with fresh eyes the busy street ahead, uniform rows of townhouses to either side, Shepherd’s Market one street over to her left. Even though their deal had been struck only yesterday, Lord St. Alban’s solicitors had moved swiftly, informing her first thing this morning of an available property and an arranged viewing.
Anticipation replaced panic. This could be it. This house could be the perfect launching point for her and Lucy to begin a new era of their lives.
But it might not be, fussed a thought the size of a sticky burr. Falling in love with and buying the first house she saw was a bit like falling in love with and marrying the first man she ever met. She’d all but done that with Percy. And that venture hadn’t worked out quite as planned.
