No wife of mine will ever be subject to such a marriage.
Oh, that she didn’t believe him. Such a belief made her feel both warm and wretched. Such a belief allowed the possibility of a different narrative for how marriage could be for a wife.
For Jake’s wife. For Jake’s proper, stainless wife.
It was too late for her to have that sort of marriage. She wasn’t the sort of wife he needed, and she could never be the sort of stepmother his daughter needed.
She strode forward, her pace set at a purposeful clip, and remembered her destination. Queen Street offered a different sort of life, the free life she’d fought so hard to obtain. It would be enough to satisfy her.
It had to be.
Chapter 18
Next day
“It appears, Lord St. Alban,” Mrs. Bloomquist began, “the tide has turned in your favor, and an exception is to be made in the case of your daughter’s admittance to our school.”
Determined not to gloat, Jake nodded a simple affirmative. He towered over the formidable woman, separated by an enormous oak desk that commanded most of her otherwise small, plain office. He’d respectfully declined her offer of a seat.
“This morning”—Mrs. Bloomquist came to her feet and made her way around the imposing desk—“Lady Nicholas Asquith successfully championed your daughter’s cause at the board of directors’ meeting.”
“Lady Nicholas? Not Lady Olivia?”
“Oh, there isn’t much those two disagree on,” the schoolmistress said.
Relief flooded him. Their methods didn’t matter one whit. He almost reached out to shake Mrs. Bloomquist’s hand before he thought better of it. Viscounts didn’t shake hands. “When can Mina begin class?”
“Miss Radclyffe may start tomorrow, if it suits her schedule.”
He detected a kernel of censure in the woman’s voice. “Mrs. Bloomquist, I can assure you that once you’ve met Mina, you will understand how rightyour”—He placed an ingratiating emphasis on the word—“institution is for her.” He couldn’t help adding, “She will be a credit to it as well.”
Mrs. Bloomquist bobbed a single dubious nod as if she’d heard hundreds of doting parents crow about their exceptional children and had yet to meet one who lived up to the acclaim. “I look forward to meeting your daughter.” She strode to the door and pulled it open, her dismissal of him clear. “Good day, my lord.”
He opened his mouth to reply when a familiar figure hurried past the doorway. He darted around Mrs. Bloomquist, who emitted a flustered gasp at his sudden movement, and peered around the doorjamb, just catching the swish of a woman’s skirts before the front door closed behind her.
Olivia.
“Good day, Mrs. Bloomquist,” he called over his shoulder. He’d intended to bestow a viscountly kiss on the woman’s hand for good measure, but he had no time for that now.
In three steps, he, too, was out the front door and treading a forever slick London sidewalk. His eyes swept up and down the street for the Duke of Arundel’s crest. No sign of it. How had her driver managed to skirt traffic and clear out so quickly? Unless . . .
Jake crossed the street, dodging oncoming traffic, and rounded the same corner from last week. He caught sight of her distinctly nondescript overcoat and bit back a smile of triumph. A few footsteps later it occurred to him that he was following Olivia.
Again. And he shouldn’t be. The Bow Street runner was handling the search for Jiro. But was he really following her to find Jiro? Or was it to see her, to be near her?
He tested the sound of her name on his tongue.Oh-liv-ee-uh. He loved the way it began on a broadOand ended on an exhale. A vulnerability lay within that softuh. Her name suited her.
Until yesterday, he hadn’t understood how vulnerableandstrong she was. She’d entrusted her deepest, darkest secret to him, rousing an intimacy different from what they’d experienced in his bed. The knowledge made his insides sing.
A smile curled about his lips. Her confession only proved that her system wasn’t rid of him. What was the word she’d used?Purged.
Their systems weren’t purged of each other. Far from it. Just this morning, that point had been made abundantly clear to him when the chambermaid had arrived to change his bed sheets. He’d turned her away. Why? Because Olivia’s scent of lavender and sandalwood lingered in his room, and he’d been unable to part with the last trace of her. Yet her scent grew fainter with each passing hour.
He snapped to, his lips assuming their habitual firm line, and exhaled a forceful breath. What was this wretched rot? These were the musings of a lovesick pup.
Only yesterday, he’d been courting a different lady. Miss Fox . . .Anne.
His insides stopped singing.
