A sliver of guilt forced its way in. She didn’t regret Percy. Never. It would be tantamount to regretting Lucy and not under any circumstances could that ever be. What she did regret was something in herself when it had come to Percy. Her eagerness. An eagerness that he be perfect . . . that she be perfect . . . that they be perfect together. A perfect fairy tale come to life was what she’d expected from her future with Percy.
And it hadn’t come to be. Not even close.
It would be best if she lowered her expectations for the first house she viewed. She needed to sample a few others as well. The second, or even third, house might be the better fit.
A gentleman doesn’t gift a lady with property, unless—
Why? Why wouldn’t the silly words go away? Why wouldn’t she let them?
She released a gusty breath. She knew why.
Lord St. Alban had shot an arrow straight to the heart of her insecurities regarding the method she was using to carve out this new life for herself. By involving him in her quest for a townhouse and her independence, she wasn’t really leaving men in the past. In fact, she was certain she’d undermined her vow.
In the moment, she’d seen an opportunity that she must seize. Today, she viewed it in a light more in line with reality: she’d again entangled her life with a man. A man who intrigued her. A man on the hunt for a wife, aproperwife.
She had no interest in opening herself up to all that could follow with an intriguing man on the hunt for a proper wife. Flowers. Family gatherings. Engagements. Marriage banns. Complications.
Yet there was an exception that allowed her to bypass all the usual rules surrounding courtship. She was a scandalous divorcée, after all. So rare was her particular sisterhood that no rules existed.
There could be another arrangement between herself and an intriguing man, one less formal. One that didn’t involve flowers or family gatherings or engagements or marriage banns. One that would remain uncomplicated.
A gentleman doesn’t gift a lady with property, unless she agreed to be his. . . mistress.
Like a siren’s song, those words, the very idea of them, called to her. It would most certainly end with her dashed across the rocks. No dealings with Lord St. Alban would long remain uncomplicated.
Ahead, Queen Street slipped into view, and in a score of steps she was rounding its corner, scanning the row of townhouses until she found the one at the end.Hertownhouse, she couldn’t help thinking. It quite banished all thoughts of uncomplicatedaffairesto the periphery of her mind.
Like its neighbors, the townhouse was built in the plain, but classical, style of the last century. She approached the tidy, unobtrusive front stoop and, instead of taking the steps up to the crimson front door, she ducked her head and made her way down the side steps to the servants’ entrance. The key should be to the right of the glossy black door beneath a flower pot.
She’d agreed upon this arrangement with Lord St. Alban’s solicitors to avoid gossip. If the rags caught wind of his activities on her behalf,complicationswould follow. All she wanted was a house and a fresh beginning. Not a scandal and a potential forced marriage.
Ha. She wouldn’t be forced into another marriage.
She tilted the flower pot onto its side and palmed the key. As she slipped it inside the lock, she took note of how very still an empty house could be. She’d never experienced a house that didn’t also contain, at least, five other souls. Such was the life of a woman born to an earl and married to the son of a duke. Not a bad life at all, but perhaps an inhibiting one.
As she made her way through the empty kitchen, up the servants’ stairs, and down the long dark corridor toward the foyer, the freedom of a truly and utterly empty house enlivened her more with each successive step. She could do whatever she pleased without a whiff of self-consciousness. On a whim, her feet spun her around, skirts swishing around her ankles as she came to a stop after a single rotation. An approximation of a giggle escaped her.
As an adult, she’d never spun through the halls of her home, rarely even as a child. It was exhilarating. She closed her eyes and did it again and again until she was dizzy with the sensation.
The image of a Flemish painting from the last century came to mind.Whirling Dervishes in Mevlevihane Pera. The smile on her face grew wider and wider with each turn. An ever strengthening light filtered pink through her closed eyelids, and she sensed she must have entered the foyer.
Her eyes popped open, and her stomach gave a lurch. A small cry burst from her throat, and her heart clanged about her chest. Her smile froze in place, a gray shadow of its former self.
A man stood in the shadow of the front door, facing her. In less than the blink of an eye, she knew him.
Lord St. Alban.Here. Watchingher.
His arctic blue gaze holding her prisoner, he lifted his hands and began a slow clap, the firm line of his lips at odds with the levity of the gesture.
Flame shot into her cheeks. Feet suddenly turned to clay, she opened her mouth to speak before snapping it shut. She began again, “Lord St. Alban, what a”—Pleasant? No. Unpleasant? That wouldn’t do either—“surprise.”
Not every sentence needed adjectives or adverbs or even verbs.
The lift of a single eyebrow was the dratted man’s only response.
~ ~ ~
Cheeks soft with pink and chest heaving, Lady Olivia’s face looked impossibly open and fresh.
