This time, Brandon didn’t bother to hide his tears. “I do too, poppet. I do too.”
“Hell’s bells, hell’s bells,”chirruped Megs from her position on Rosamund’s shoulder.
“Hush,” Rosamund chided, giving the parrot’s head a gentle pet. “I told you to behave today.”
“Behave today, what a good little parrot,” Megs said. “Megs wants pistache.”
Lottie bit her lip to keep from chuckling at the bird’s antics. Once again, her friend and the African grey who was her beloved companion were joining her for tea. And once again, Lottie was grateful for the distraction they provided.
“Where did our dear Megs manage to obtain her interesting lexicon?” Lottie asked, seeking to divert herself even more.
Because ever since she had left the Duke of Brandon’s house the evening before, she had been thinking about the way they’d parted.
A chaste kiss on her knuckles as he handed her into the carriage.
Nothing more.
Not even the slightest hint of impropriety.
To say she’d been disappointed at his lack of attempts at seduction was a vast understatement. She’d been left aching with pent-up longing and no cure, save her own attentions once she was safely abed for the night. Butthinking aboutBrandon’scock deep inside her andfeelingit fill her, stoking the flames of need ever higher, were two different things entirely.
Heat swept over her cheeks—she hoped Rosamund wouldn’t take note.
Her friend sighed, happily oblivious. “I would like to claim complete innocence where her vocabulary is concerned, but I’m afraid she has learned some interesting language from my household. However, Megs belonged to someone else before she came to me. A sea captain whose own language must have been somewhat…er, salty.”
That explained some of the parrot’s more colorful quips.
“Salty, salty,” Megs squawked, cocking her head at Lottie.
Lottie found the parrot’s scrutiny a bit disconcerting. It was as if Megs could look into her soul and find her darkest secrets lurking.
“Saltier than the sea,” Rosamund quipped, offering the parrot a bite of tea biscuit. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with a biscuit, Megs. I’ve forgotten your pistachios at home.”
Megs accepted the biscuit, chewing greedily, a shower of crumbs falling from her beak into Rosamund’s lap.
“At least she will always keep the conversation lively and interesting,” Lottie said with a chuckle. “No one shall ever be bored with Megs about.”
“Indeed. You should hear the things she’s said to Camden.” Rosamund laughed too, apparently unconcerned with the African grey’s lack of manners.
“Speaking of Camden,” Lottie said, seizing upon that thread of conversation, “I saw the notice of your engagement inThe Times. You’re certain, then?”
Rosamund’s smile faded. “As certain as I shall ever be. Marriage is not a decision I make lightly, of course.”
“Lightly, of course,” chirped Megs. “Lightly, of course.”
“Believe me, my dear, I understand.” Lottie took a sip of her tea, trying to calm the disquiet within her that had been rising steadily ever since the Duke of Brandon had offered his unexpected proposal. “Marriage can be quite dreadful. Although I hope it is different for you than it was for me.”
Speaking about marriage took her back to dinner the evening before and the surprisingly deep, meaningful discussions she had shared with Brandon. Lottie hadn’t been honest with the Duke of Brandon about her reasons for wanting to avoid marriage. If she had been, she might have revealed a truth so stark and debilitating that it was impossible to comprehend. She kept it shut away, like a cursed treasure in a box, hidden and never to be opened again.
Her marriage to Grenfell had nearly destroyed her.
But like a phoenix, she had risen from the ashes. She had made herself wanted, lighthearted, amusing, desired. She had transformed herself into a lover, a merry widow, a woman who was unabashedly who she wanted to be, with no one to answer to. She had not, however, found that ever-elusive feeling she’d spent the years since Grenfell’s death seeking.
Contentment.
Happiness.
Peace.
