Except it wasn’t.
Something else had driven him to World’s End that night, the same reason he lingered at her door now, though he refused to name it.
He walked away. Behind him came the faint creak of the door, then the quiet click of the lock.
Mrs Boswell was waiting at the foot of the stairs, as silent as a priest at confession, her expression free of judgement.
“I know. I’ve inherited my parents’ fondness for lewd antics in corridors.” He adjusted his cuffs, feigning indifference, though the notion brought bile to his throat. “It seems I share their taste for coupling in public places.”
Her brows rose, but her voice was gentle. “You’re nothing like them, my lord. And kissing your wife on your wedding day is hardly considered debauchery.”
He gave a mirthless laugh. “That depends on the intention behind the kiss, Mrs Boswell.” His thoughts had been far from tame.
“Perhaps the intention was the first honest thing you’ve allowed yourself in years. I’ve never known you to act against your will.”
“I fear I’m compelled by the same weaknesses as other men. That must be a dreadful disappointment.”
“Or a blessing in disguise.” Taking advantage of his mellow mood, she asked the question that had plagued her since his return from the watch-house. “Was it him? Mr Lovelace?”
“Probably.” The image would haunt him tonight. “Possibly.”
“You don’t know?”
“I’ll not commit unless I’m certain.”
“Certain you’re not being used to serve someone else’s end?”
“You must admit there’s something odd about the timing.” Two friends lost a decade ago, both reappearing within days of each other. The question he had to answer was what it had to do with Olivia.
He saw a flash of fear in his housekeeper’s eyes. “Perhaps you could take Lady Rothley and visit Eaton Chase. Let Mr Daventry and Lord Berridge handle things here.”
“You’re suggesting I run away, Mrs Boswell?” he mocked, though her concern touched him deeply. “My ancestor died protecting the crown on the field at Agincourt. I’ll not be chased from my home by ghosts.”
“Then I pray no one is wounded in the skirmish.”
She’d watched him fight many battles, most with himself.
On that sobering note, he bid his housekeeper goodnight and returned to the sanctuary of his private chambers.
Except his rooms were no longer a refuge.
The drawing room still held her scent, roses laced with something indefinable, the same quiet mystery that surrounded the woman herself. Memories of their kiss crowded his mind, and he sat in her chair, savouring the thought because it was the closest he would come to living it again.
He lingered in his dressing room long after dismissing his valet, his gaze fixed on the concealed door to his private library, imagining her eyes on his bare chest, the memory brushing over him like an intimate caress.
His bed was cold.
Yet his body was as hot as a flame.
He fought the urge to take himself in hand, to end the ache while whispering her name. Bloody hell. Had he learnt nothing?
He stared at the ceiling, forcing his thoughts to still. Safe thoughts. Cold thoughts. Everyone lied in the end. Better to return to his old creed of solitude. The only defence a man could trust. The one that had never betrayed him.
Chapter Eleven
Office of the Order
Hart Street, Covent Garden
