“I believe it is exceedingly difficult to find a reputable man willing to accompany a woman to the Egyptian desert. I’m not sure you can afford to be picky after all the time you’ve spent in fruitless searching. Not if you ever want this dream of yours to come true.”
Eden let out a sigh, knowing that Daphne’s pragmatism was both the best and worst of her qualities. “Lucas warns me that Max has developed an unhealthy relationship with drink. He may be completely unreliable.”
“Perhaps. But it sounds as if there’s still some unfinished business between the two of you.” Daphne looked at her with dancing eyes, unwilling to let the subject rest. “If nothing else, it’s worth seeing him again. After all, it’s been what... ten years?”
“Fifteen.”
“Gracious,” Daphne exclaimed. “Oh, do say you’ll go and see him. Curiosity alone must be killing you.”
Was it curiosity? Eden feared it was something far more unruly, a combination of hope and old bitterness that she could scarcely untangle, let alone admit aloud. “He let me go, Daphne. I wanted him to fight for me, but he walked away and never looked back.”
“And have you considered that he may have wanted you to fight as well?”
The question hung in the air between them, unsettling in its simplicity. Eden stood and moved toward the window, watching the sea crash against the shore beyond the manicured gardens.She had made herself forget him, turning all her attention and passion to the mysteries of the past. And yet...
“Lucas has informed me Max can be found at a dockside tavern in London called The Smuggler’s Lantern,” she said, turning back to Daphne with newfound resolve. “Perhaps I will go. Just for... curiosity’s sake.”
“Wonderful!” Daphne gave her a cheeky smile. “I’ve never been to a dockside tavern. It sounds absolutely thrilling. I’ll come along and ensure you make it there without bolting in the opposite direction. You’ll need someone to help you stay focused and not lose your nerve.”
Eden’s laughter was genuine this time. “You’re incorrigible. But if I must go, I would certainly appreciate the company.”
“You’ve nothing to lose, my dear. Except, perhaps, your carefully constructed solitude.” Daphne’s voice was soft, teasing, but also held an understanding that only years of friendship could impart.
Eden nodded, silently acknowledging the truth in her friend’s words. Solitude was safe, but boring. For just a moment, she allowed herself to remember the passion she’d once found in Max’s arms. Even though she’d been married for over a decade, Max had been her only lover, and the desire they’d shared had been... magical. She’d never felt as alive as she had in Max’s arms.
She picked up the letter again with a steadier hand. “We’ll leave tomorrow then,” she murmured, as much to herself as to Daphne.
“Shall we wait for Genevieve?” Daphne asked.
Genevieve, the Duchess of Ashland, was the leader of their little alliance of Wayward Widows. A brothel fire had taken the lives of four aristocratic men two years ago. The four widows had all banded together and moved to Willoughby Hall, Genevieve’sseaside estate in Kent, finding comfort and friendship in their shared plight.
However, Genevieve had gone to visit her son, the current duke, at his estate right outside the city. Eden didn’t want their friend to cut her trip short, but she didn’t want to wait either. Now that the idea had formed, she didn’t want to waste any time.
“No,” she replied emphatically. “I think the sooner I do this, the better.”
Maybe to achieve the future she’d wanted for so long, she was going to have to confront her past.
Leaving Daphne in the library, Eden climbed the stairs to her bedchamber on the second floor, needing some time alone to think about her impulsive decision to go to London tomorrow. She let herself into the lovely room decorated in shades of blue, teal, and gold that matched the colors of the spectacular view out her window. When she’d first arrived here as a new widow, feeling guilty for not mourning her husband, she’d taken great comfort in the view.
Sinking into the cushions of the window seat, she found herself staring not at the sea but at the cozy, storybook cottage next door, with its thatched roof and unique design. Her friend Lavender lived there with her husband, Kendrick Wycliffe. Lavender had also lived at Willoughby Hall until about six months ago, but she’d fallen head over heels with their handsome, hermit-like neighbor. She’d accompanied him to Spain to find his long-lost daughter, only to end up returning with the girl’s half-brother and half-sister as well. Now they were happily married, their home overflowing with children and laughter.
Until today, Lavender had been the only one of their group Eden had ever confided in about Max, but even then, she hadn’tmentioned his name. She’d kept her thoughts of him locked so deeply inside all these years that she had no idea how to begin to let them out now. Lavender might understand, might be the best one to talk to tonight, but Eden found herself just sinking farther down into the cushions, closing her eyes against the sight of her friend’s happy home. She’d long ago accepted that such happiness was not for her.
Seeking Max in London was probably a ruinous gamble, yet she’d exhausted herself in the search for someone half as capable for over a year now. She couldn’t imagine turning away from this chance to secure a suitable guide for her expedition to Egypt—or to see him again.
Would he even remember her?
Her greatest fear was that Max had not given her a single thought in all these years.
His absence had become something she had learned to skirt around, like a sore tooth one avoided with one’s tongue, and now here she was, contemplating purposefully seeking him out and engaging his services. Would he be different after all these years?
She cast herself back, wading through echoes of past conversations, their witty sparring, and the camaraderie that once seemed as natural as breathing. She remembered his disarming grin, the ease with which he moved through the world, and the way his laughter had made the constraints of her life feel momentarily looser. What if all those bright memories were now replaced by bitterness? Could she handle his hatred? Or worse, his disdain? She clasped her hands tightly around her knees, trying to steady her spiraling emotions.
After denying Max permission to court her, her father, the formidable Earl of Haversham, had informed her that he had already arranged for her to wed the Duke of Radcliffe’s younger son, Richard. The betrothal had made no sense to her. Why denyMax’s suit, ostensibly because he was a younger son, only to turn around and marry her to another younger son with no better prospects?
She hadn’t known then that her father and the duke had made a bargain, that the duke had made a political move that had solidified the success of one of the earl’s investments. Her father had sold her, plain and simple, a fact that still made her blood boil. What was even worse, the earl had sold her to a man who had preferred men to women, a man who’d never had any intention of being a husband to her in truth. She now knew that the duke had merely wanted the sham marriage to cool the scandal and whispers about his son. He’d also wanted Eden’s enormous dowry to prop up some of his own failed business ventures.
Perhaps her mother would have tried to intercede on her behalf, but she’d died of a fever the year before. She’d felt so very alone, unable to fight her father’s will without anyone to help her do so.
