“Explains what?”
“Why you’re a ... well, you know.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “A spinster.”
Air whooshed from her lungs. Though she’d heard such remarks before, she’d always been immune, having acceptedthe consequences of her choices. But for some reason, this one pompous woman’s unfiltered opinion cut deep, exposing a longing for companionship she’d been trying to ignore—unsuccessfullytrying to ignore—ever since she’d met Mr. Price. Was the path she’d chosen as an Egyptologist, all the social sacrifices she’d made, worth a life alone in a room full of dusty relics? For the first time, she questioned—really questioned—the life she’d made.
And she wasn’t entirely sure she liked the answer.
Ami spun away. “I really should be getting back to work now, Miss Woolsey.” Her feet pounded the cobbles, eating up as much ground as the width of her hem would allow. She was done with this walk and more than finished with any further scathing remarks from Violet.
“I hope you didn’t take that the wrong way, Miss Dalton,” Violet called behind her. “I merely meant that you—oh!”
A ragged scream ripped through the sanctity of the garden.
Ami wheeled about.
Violet sprawled on her belly, her slipper half-on and half-off her foot, having been snagged on the cattywampus cobble. Part of her body lay on the paving, the other part prone in a tangle of ivy.
Where Violet and a snake stared nose to nose.
15
Six hours. Enough time for a battalion to storm the walls of a fortified fortress and secure the perimeter, yet apparently not sufficient for the viscount to make up his mind on the finer points of the platform Edmund had drawn up last night—or rather that Ami had drawn up. Covering his mouth with his fist, he stifled a yawn. It was far too warm in here, making him even more drowsy. Though he’d had Barnaby open the windows, after being cooped up in the study for so long, the air was stale.
“Well?” he prodded.
“Mmm,” Bastion mumbled noncommittally as he raised the last page of the document in the air, his sharp eyes fixed on the page.
Edmund leaned forward in his chair, his lower back aching from having sat in one position the better part of the afternoon.
“I think . . .” Bastion’s lips pursed.
“Yes?”
Silence, save for the steady ticktock of the clock and a deep inhale from the viscount. For pity’s sake! It was only a rough draft of a political strategy, not a plan to save humanity.
At last, the viscount slapped the page against his thigh and reached for his tumbler of brandy. After a sip, he cleared his throat, stared Edmund right in the face, and—
Once again folded over the infernal last page.
Edmund pinched the bridge of his nose. It was either that or shoot from the chair and bang his head against the wall.
“How am I to think with such agitation distracting me?” Bastion peered over the top of the paper, a slow smile lifting his lips. “Though it’s to be understood, I suppose. I remember the days before I married the viscountess. All that hot blood running through one’s veins. Hang in there, man.” He winked.
Edmund’s stomach roiled. It was wrong of him, this deceit simply to gain a seat in Parliament. Sanjay or not, he simply couldn’t do it anymore. “About that, my lord ... I think it best you know now I am not ready for marriage, not even to your daughter. It’s nothing personal, I assure you.”
For a long beat, the man said nothing, just stared at him, brow scrunching. Was this it, then? The death of his candidacy? An end of putting a stop to the tariff that would destroy men like Sanjay?
At length, the viscount once again disappeared behind the papers. “I understand, Price. I was young once too, you know.”
That was it? It’d been that simple all along? For the first time in hours, he relaxed against the chair cushion, relieved beyond measure. “Thank you, my lord. If you’d rather I speak with—”
A rap pounded on the door, though the viscount gave no indication he’d heard the knock. Bypassing the man, Edmund swung the door open to Barnaby.
“You have a caller, sir. A Professor Bram Webb. In the sitting room.”
“And you left him in there alone?” He shoved past the butler and dashed down the corridor.
“I didn’t think you’d wish him to be brought in here, sir,” Barnaby called after him.
