Her brows creased together. Why had he said that last bit? Wasn’t he on the hunt for a proper wife? Then why would he dance with her at a ball in front of the entireton?
Added to that, she’d found himhereof all the places in London . . . None of these factors added up to an explanation that made sense to her.
A soft harrumph ushered her back into the present. She turned to find Jiro, waiting for her to enter. A few seconds later, she stepped inside his studio and realized that she’d always seen it in the afternoon, never seen in full morning light. It was a glorious distraction from the strange interlude of minutes ago.
Well, almost. The idea that Jake was so recently here called out to her. As if an essence of him lingered in the air and, with every breath, she inhaled him instead of oxygen.
What romantic rot.
She may be many things to many people, but romantic wasn’t one of them. No longer was she a romantic, green girl. Marriage, widowhood, and a set-aside marriage had put an end to the girl she once was.
Jiro stepped forward, an object in hand. “Is this the item you seek?”
She looked down to find her set of charcoals. “Ah, yes, thank you. Although I’m not sure why I bothered, other than to get away from the frenzy of ball preparations. My pencil hasn’t produced anything worthwhile these past few days.”
“One cannot predict such things,” he stated, his fingers busily organizing his own tray of charcoals. “Your pencil will find its way again.”
“Jiro,” she began without thinking, “about Lord St. Alban—” She paused, hoping he would complete her sentence. He didn’t. “May I ask—?”
“No, Lady Olivia, you may not,” he replied softly, firmly.
Those last three words were so simple.You may not.
Monosyllabic, light words. Neither heavy nor complex.You may not.
Yet they landed in the room with a solid thud.
She averted her gaze, stung. A confirmation lay within those simple words that wasn’t at all simple, confirmation that something didn’t add up. Jake was withholding information from her.
Her pulse jumped as a swirl of emotion threatened to catch her up in its whirlwind. Hurt, yes, but another emotion as substantial, too. Pique and . . . curiosity . . . A righteous sort of hurt, pique, and curiosity. Feelings to which she had no right.
Tiny, invisible splinters, they burrowed deep beneath her skin.
“Is that all you need?” Jiro asked.
Olivia nodded, already on her way out. A spark of vitality flared inside her. “I believe my pencil has found its way.”
We’ve only scraped the surface of our beginning.
What on earth could the dratted man mean by speaking such words to her?
Chapter 24
An olive to pluck
A viscount fair dares to dream
Far more than a good—?
Olivia was right: the latestLondon Diaryhaiku was a delight.
Except Jake wasn’t being ironic. To be sure, it was crude, uncivil, and even made a crass stab at rhyme. No matter. It served his purpose that he and she be known.
He’d only just stepped foot inside the Duke of Arundel’s opulent ballroom, and already found himself the recipient of no fewer than five knowing, appreciative nods from his own sex and five knowing, flirtatious smirks from the opposite sex.
Oh, yes, they were known. That feeling from the night he’d met her infused him with its galvanizing spark.Interested, engaged, and alive.
But the feeling had been inconvenient, so he’d shut it away . . .triedto shut them away. Suppression hadn’t exactly worked.
