“Some,” she admitted. “I can see it pains him.”
“As well it ought,” Lady Beaufort said sharply. “When I think of what that woman did to those poor children, leaving them as she did… And poor Arden, the manner in which he searched for her. He had no rest until he found his mother’s body washed ashore. He carried her back to Albemarle himself.”
Her heart ached anew at the thought of what Lucien had suffered. At the knowledge he had set out to find his mother, and had not stopped, until he carried her home himself.
“You have my promise I will not carry tales,” she forced herself to say past the lump in her throat. “The last thing I would wish is to cause upset for either you or Arden, my lady. While I may be incapable of meeting your standards of comportment, I hope you will at least believe I hold your family in the highest of esteem.”
Her ladyship treated her to a long, searching glance, before she finally gave a sniff—though whether of approval or disapproval, Hazel could not say. “Perhaps you might ring for a tray of tea for me after all, Miss Montgomery.”
This time, Hazel did smile. “Of course, my lady.”
Time did not dull the pain of a loss, but sometimes, the caring of others could replace the cold with a flood of life-affirming warmth. It was yet another lesson Hazel had learned since her arrival in England, and it was a good one, she decided, as she rose and headed for the bell pull. It was a lesson she would carry with her in her heart, even when Lark House, Lady Beaufort, and Lucien were nothing but memories.
Later that evening,Lucien and Hazel arrived at their Portman Square destination, the carriage stopping on Baker Street.
“Will you tell me where you are taking me now?” Hazel asked.
Her lilting drawl made heat slide through him. He rather suspected she could recite poetry in Latin and still make his prick go hard, with nothing more than the rasp of her voice and the sweet trill of her accent.
“You will find out soon enough,” he told her, hoping she would like her surprise.
He had never before had an interest in playing the tourist in London, but for Hazel, he was willing to make an exception to his rule. It was a disturbing pattern he had come to recognize. How one woman could suddenly have so much power over him, was a vexing question he would interrogate later. For now, all he wanted to do was please her and make the smile return to her lips.
And kiss her.
And lift her skirts.
And sink home inside her.
But all of those, like the matter of her supremacy over him, would be examined another time. She had been adamant in her refusal of his proposal. She had been fiery at breakfast, prickly through their day of navigating the bombing scene, and then their meeting in Scotland Yard with Winchelsea and others. This evening, she was a different, softer side of Hazel. She had finally relented, at least as much as Hazel Montgomery ever deigned to relent.
He descended from the carriage and offered her his hand, which she promptly ignored, being Hazel. If his driver was laughing at him, Cobb certainly gave no indication. Just as well. Lucien would hate to have to sack the fellow, for then they would be obliged to obtain Hazel’s favorite mode of London transportation, the hired hack.
He had put a great deal of effort into conjuring up the ideal manner in which a gentleman would court an unconventional woman such as Miss H.E. Montgomery. The Waxworks were gauche, it was true. Common also. A haven, no doubt, for garish spectators to spend their hard-earned shillings on a quick distraction. He had it on good authority that the optimal time to attend was under the cover of darkness, when the gas lamps were lit. Perhaps it added to the realism of the whole affair. Perhaps it was merely an ambience.
Either way, he was here. He had brought Hazel here. And he hoped like Hades it wasn’t a misstep on his part. He wanted her to enjoy herself tonight. He offered her his arm to escort her into the building, and thankfully, she at least accepted that much from him. Her head tipped back to observe the structure they were about to enter.
“Madame Tussaud’s Waxwork Exhibition,” she read aloud. “How did you know I have been longing to visit?”
“A guess.” He smiled back at her enthusiasm. “You are pleased?”
In truth, Hazel-when-happy was as easy to read as Hazel-when-hungry.
“I am very pleased, Lucien,” she told him warmly.
Christ help him.He was lost for this woman.
He cleared his throat, attempting to gather his composure. “Good. Shall we be on our way?”
“Oh yes!” She clapped her hands together, much like a child who had been given a gift.
Her excitement was infectious, and he found himself grinning like a fool as he paid a shilling for each of them to enter. Hazel argued she wished to pay her own fee. He ignored her. She muttered “damned arrogant lout” beneath her breath. He ignored that as well, as they stepped through a turnstile and approached an attendant, who collected their outerwear and offered them a ticket in return. Another attendant, watching the procession of visitors with a stony glare, turned out to be a wax figure himself, though credibly lifelike in appearance.
“Oh! I thought he was real,” Hazel murmured to him.
She was brimming with happiness, and he reveled in it. Basked in the glow of her as they made their way through the exhibit, wandering past the royal family, where fellow visitors had gathered to coo over the lifelike qualities of the wax assemblage. He had to admit the Duke of Connaught was represented especially well.
“Here,” Hazel said then,sotto voce. “Look at your world.”
