“Her French is atrocious.”
An awkward silence descended over the room at this assessment.
“Do you suppose there’s anything we can do for her?” Della asked. There was really no reason to send the girl away when no one else knew of her indiscretion and it must be obvious to her father by now that she wasn’t in a family way. If only the man were more forgiving, he might have chosen to forget the whole incident and let Miss Greenwood go on with her life.
“Not unless you can find her a replacement husband before then,” Annabelle replied in a grim tone.
Della was halfway through drafting a mental list of potential candidates before she stopped herself. Had she learned nothing from the disaster of Peter’s engagement? Better not to meddle any further.
“To return to our earlier conversation,” Annabelle said briskly, eager to turn the subject away from her ruined lover. “Yes, I think you need to write your viscount to share a copy of your book, and no, I don’t think you’ll be bothering him. Isn’t he divorcing his wife? I would’ve thought you’d have secured yourself a place as the next Lady Ashton by now.”
“Don’t tease me,” Della replied glumly. “We haven’t spoken in months and I miss him.”
Every time a caller came to the door, she knew a foolish hope that it would be Ashton, come to say that he couldn’t do without her another day.
But of course he could. Of course she could too. They’d ledseparate lives before they’d met and now they would do so again, only a little lonelier for the experience.
She missed talking to him. She missed his gorgeous, understated green eyes and those adorable wire spectacles. She missed his scolding tone, and the fun she’d had trying to persuade him when he was wrong about something.
“Why can’t you be together once he’s free?” Annabelle asked, while gazing back down to a book she’d had in her lap, as if she hadn’t yet decided whether it might prove more interesting than their conversation. “What did he say about it?”
Della scoured her memory to produce a faithful transcription of the essentials: “Something, something, he made a terrible mistake nine years ago. Something, something, something, he’s determined to be miserable forever now. I believe that’s more or less how it went.”
Annabelle buried a laugh in her palm. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m really not! I’ve never met a man more averse to joy in my entire life.”
“He wasn’t averse toyou, though,” Annabelle observed, “and you tend to make other people joyful, so he can’t have been quite as austere as he seems.”
Of course now that Lord Ashton was no longer a regular fixture at their town house Annabelle would decide she liked him. The contrary little imp only wanted to disagree with whatever view Della expressed.
But the truth was plain enough. Ashton wasn’t here. He’d chosen to go through his present troubles alone, believing it to be some sort of noble sacrifice rather than a disguised cowardice. However much he might have cared for Della, it hadn’t been enough to make him stay.
“Did you see his new book yet?” Annabelle was still talking, though Della had been too lost in her own thoughts to follow.
“Hmm?”
Her sister had already left the room. A moment later, she returned with a small volume in hand. It wasn’t anewbook at all, but rather, the second edition of his guide to London.
“When did you get this?” Della snatched the guide and began flipping through it, her face turning hot. She’d meant to keep better track of the date, but it had entirely slipped her mind. How embarrassing that Annabelle should have to remind her.
“Only two days ago,” she replied. That wasn’t so long. “I tried to tell you, but you were at Bishop’s when—”
But Della’s relief was short-lived, chased swiftly by a new worry.
“Don’t you think that if Lord Ashton wanted to hear from me again he would have sent me a copy himself?”
“You’re so rude! You don’t even let me get a word out before you’re off on whateveryou’rethinking of.” With a fierce glare, Annabelle plucked the book from Della’s hands and began turning to the page she wanted before handing it back. “I wastryingto show you this, before you interrupted me.”
Della glanced down. It was the chapter on night life and gambling clubs. There was the text on White’s and Brooks’s that she’d read often enough to have nearly memorized. And beneath it, in little black letters, was something unexpected.
Our readers will be surprised to learn of a new addition on Piccadilly, which caters to ladies. Bishop’s Chocolate Emporium is open from Tuesday to Saturday evenings, and promises to offer its members an incomparable experience.
He’s added us.
Della placed a hand to her breast, unsure whether the feeling in her heart was joy or pain.
“Why should he have done it, after he swore he wouldn’t?”
