She’d been close, so very close to puttinghimbehind her. She’d fulfilled her end of the bargain—Miss Radclyffe would begin school tomorrow—and, as far as her search for a townhouse went, she’d resolved not to involve him further. She only needed the services of his solicitors. Once the house was purchased, they could go their separate ways as if nothing had ever occurred between them.
Then, this morning, she’d opened theLondon Diaryand sawit, the haiku.
They were known by someone. But who?
Some hack with a pen and an inflated sense of his own power and importance. The individual mattered not, in reality, only the scope of his voice. There was but one way to silence that voice: to truly end matters with Jake. Scandal wouldn’t much change her life, but for him it would decrease his chances of finding a perfectly perfect, suitable, spotless wife.
Of course, theLondon Diary’s speculation would become confirmed fact if she bought this house. And Miss Fox was clever enough to figure it out. Their one saving grace was that Miss Fox didn’t seem the type to read such a frivolous publication, which, of course, was none of Olivia’s concern.
She lifted her face to the ceiling and took a slow spin, winding round alongside the magnificent staircase that coiled all the way up, up, up to the circular skylight now black with night. She located the small, unobtrusive door she’d missed on her first visit.
Earlier today, Jake’s solicitors had passed along an instruction from the house’s owners that she enter the gray door at the top of the staircase. No further detail was provided her. All very mysterious.
The girl from her youth, the girl who loved gothic novels and currently resided within Lucy, reared her head. Olivia loved a good mystery. Secret doors at the top of staircases were the stuff of her girlish fantasies.
A frisson of anticipation raced up her spine, which, of course, had nothing to do with the fact that her wristwatch now read two minutes to the hour. Two minutes until Jake’s arrival. When had she begun thinking of him asJake?
She was being disingenuous. She liked this diminutive of his given name, Jakob. It was a name at ease with itself, making him feel more accessible to her. Not that she desired more access.
That, too, was disingenuous.
Except, this feeling wasn’t specifically about access. The diminutive explained something about him, about the man who wasn’t supposed to be The Right Honourable Jakob Radclyffe, Fifth Viscount St. Alban. That man had been Mr. Jakob Radclyffe to many, Captain Radclyffe to some, and Jake to few.
In London, he was Lord St. Alban to all, and Jake only to her. A warm feeling at odds with the chill of the empty house stole through her. It was a feeling she liked too much. A feeling she could nest inside and settle too comfortably within.
She drew in a breath of night-cooled air and glanced again at her wrist watch. Ten o’clock on the nose. One more tick of the gold minute hand, and he would be late.
She picked up the dim lamp and crossed the room to the staircase. Her fingertips feathered across silky smooth walnut. No detail of this house had been ignored. It was light and airy, even in the dark of night. It would have to bethishouse. The one with a memory of him etched into it. She kept getting herself wrapped up ever tighter with him.
Oh, this house would be her undoing. Doubtless, there would be another haiku published within a week of its purchase. One less opaque. One more specific and pointed. One which would possibly name names. Society dined on this sort of gossip for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, at once satisfied and ravenous for more. But there was no help for it. The heart knew what it wanted, and hers wanted this house. She refused to think about what else her heart might want.
She tilted her wrist watch toward the dim light of the lamp. One minute past ten o’clock. Jake was late.
The clear and distinct echo of footsteps sounded down the hallway, drawing nearer and louder at a brisk but unhurried clip,hisclip.
She tried to relax by clenching, then unclenching her fists. At last, he came into focus in the doorway, which neatly framed his lean form. It was as obvious to her as it was to every other woman in London that he was simply impossibly handsome. Even in the near dark. Maybe, especially in the near dark as the shadows played with the angles of his face.
Yet there was something more in addition to the impossibly handsome: the impossibly sensuous. When had he becomeimpossibly sensuous?
A vexed frown pinched her lips.
“Am I late?” he asked in a tone that didn’t sound as concerned as his words might have suggested.
“Yes,” she replied, sounding distressingly like Lucy on a petulant day.
“My apologies,” he said on a shallow bow, even as his mouth, that talented, efficient mouth of his, maintained its familiar firm line.
“No need for apologies, my lord. In fact, your tardiness is promising evidence that you are settling into the viscountcy quite well.” She liked the way his eyes narrowed at her stern tone, a tone she couldn’t help borrowing from Mrs. Bloomquist. “It is the first rule of the nobility. Everyone can wait.”
“Then my apologies for not having made you wait longer.”
A begrudging smile found its way to her lips. “Now for the second rule of the nobility.” She allowed a beat to pass. A flash of pleasure coursed through her at the very idea that she could hold this glorious man in suspense. It wasn’t every woman who could boast that particular thrill. “Never apologize.”
He stepped forward, halving the distance between them, and took another bow. “Again, my apologies.”
His gaze pinned her in place, and, like that, the power of the moment shifted to him. Oh, how an unmanageable part of her wanted him to use it. This felt dangerously like flirting. Was she flirting?
She was. In the presence of the tease playing about his eyes and mouth, she couldn’t seem to help herself. She tried clearing her throat, hoping to clear her head in the process.
