They were stopped near the entry hall, with Elizabeth just having descended from an elegant bedchamber the likes of which she had never seen, after a night in a bed that had been so deliciously comfortable. A far cry from the cramped quarters afforded her by the Earl and Countess of Worthing. Hardly befitting her station as impromptu, thoroughly uninvited guest.
“I assumed a roof over my head for the evening was what he intended,” Elizabeth responded, careful to keep any hint of censure from her voice. “And I am greatly thankful to his lordship and to Your Grace and His Grace for paying me the honor.”
It had occurred to her that she might beg the duchess for a letter of recommendation to aid in her quest to find another situation. But she wasn’t certain how to broach the subject.
“Paying you the honor?” The Duchess of Montrose laughed incredulously, the sound making the large white cat in her arms stir in protest and offer an indolent meow. Elizabeth thought suddenly of the cat of her youth, her beloved Mince Pie, and her heart gave a pang. “Good heavens, my dear,” the duchess added. “You cannot think that after everything that transpired, Torrie would leave you here and do nothing to come to your aid.”
“I don’t require his lordship’s aid,” she said simply.
The viscount had done quite enough as it was. And none of it good.
“My brother is an honorable man, Miss Brooke.” The duchess shook her head, heaving a small sigh as she scratched the cat’s head and the loud sound of purring ensued. “Perhaps, in the haste of the night, he neglected to inform you of everything as he ought to have done. Fortunately, however, he has arrived to pay you a call. He is awaiting you in my salon. Do follow me, my dear.”
The viscount was here?
Awaiting her?
The duchess had already turned and was drifting down the hall from where they had come, taking the cat with her. And leaving Elizabeth standing in the hall in her overly large, nearly threadbare redingote and her simple day gown, the heaviness of her valise and heart pulling at her with equal force.
“Miss Brooke?” The duchess paused, peering over her shoulder and offering her a smile of encouragement. “Coming along, if you please. The sooner this matter is settled, the better it shall be for us all.”
Elizabeth was more perplexed than ever, and the dread of the unknown awaiting her knotted in her belly. She was keenly aware of the picture she must present. Plain, proper, drab Miss Brooke. Governess in someone else’s cast-off clothes. Belonging nowhere and to no one. Wallflower of five failed Seasons, more suitable for scorn than a waltz.
Her fingers tensed on the handle of her valise. She had seen Lord Torrington yesterday in a world of shadows and darkness and candlelight. But she had been suspended in shock and disbelief and fear then. Now, it was daylight. Everything was different.
What did he want from her?
The Duchess of Montrose was continuing blithely on down the hall. And Elizabeth had a choice. She could either leave in a humiliated panic, risking ruining the only possible chance she had to obtain a letter of recommendation from the duchess, or she could follow in her hostess’s wake.
One deep breath.
Then another.
Finally, a third.
Elizabeth forced herself to move. Somehow, without truly being aware of her surroundings, she found herself in a cheerful salon, filled with lovely chalk pictures hanging from the wall and gorgeous rosewood furniture and, most eye-catching of all, Viscount Torrington.
Their gazes clashed instantly. Meeting and holding. By the light of day, he was even more handsome than he had been the night before. Without the shadows and darkness obscuring his features, he quite stole her breath. His hair was as dark as the duchess’s, a rich shade of ebony that glinted in the sunlight filtering through the windows, and although he was cleanly shaven, the stubble of whiskers shaded his masculine jaw. His eyes were a vibrant Pomona green. His nose and cheekbones were slashing angles. It was as if no time had passed, and she was suddenly an overlooked debutante watching him from her hiding place amidst the potted palms.
Why, oh why, did Viscount Torrington still have to be the most handsome man she had ever beheld?
He bowed. “Madam.”
She curtsied, still holding her valise, which was growing heavier by the moment. “My lord.”
The Duchess of Montrose turned to the viscount, cradling her cat in her arms, who presided over their odd meeting with sleepy feline eyes. “Shall I remain and act as chaperone, Torrie? I suppose I should, but given what happened last evening…”
Her words trailed away, and Elizabeth felt the sting of embarrassed heat in her cheeks.
“I rather think the damage has been done, Harriet,” Lord Torrington told his sister, sounding grim.
With his gaze diverted to the duchess, Elizabeth felt as if she could breathe again. Yes, indeed. The damage had been done. She had lost her situation. She mustn’t forget that the viscount’s recklessness was the reason.
“Very well. I shall grant you some privacy,” the duchess relented.
“There is hardly any need for it,” Elizabeth interjected, alarm rising at the prospect of being alone with Lord Torrington.
She still hadn’t any inkling why he should wish to speak with her.
