Winnie froze as a surge of jealousy coursed through her. She turned to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, thanked her for the dinner, and left.
By the time she got to her carriage, tears were rolling down her cheeks. On the drive back to the townhouse, she reprimanded herself for being childish. Lex hadn’t asked the two women to throw themselves at him. But Winnie knew that both Beatrice and Lavinia came from wealthy families. And while both had scandals in those families, Winnie had not heard anything directly related to them. There were no real skeletons in their closets.
But there was in Winnie’s. What would Lex think when he found out that she was the Lace Bandit? His fight for her honor would have been all for naught. And she didn’t want to embarrass him, considering he had his own problems with his late father’s gambling debts.
Winnie, you are a fool for living in a dream world.She didn’t regret the pleasurable interlude she’d spent with Lex in the private suite…no,thatshe would tuck away in her memories for safekeeping. But she’d been naïve to think she could marry and live happily ever after, given her alter ego. And even though her motives were justified in her mindand heart, they were not justified by the law.
No matter what her grandmother wished, Winnie couldn’t possibly marry, because that would mean exposing herself as the Lace Bandit, and then what? What would become of her then? She must resign herself to a lonely life, for that would be her fate.
Chapter Fourteen
London
Two days later
Why had sheleft?
Lex had racked his brain trying to answer that question ever since he pummeled Hammond at Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s dinner party. One moment, he’d been surrounded by a huddle of admirers, congratulating him for finally giving the bastard what he deserved. Next, Edwina was gone.
When he’d finally extricated himself from the crush of onlookers, flushed with adrenaline and the sharp sting of a bruised knuckle, he’d searched the crowd for her. But Edwina was nowhere to be found. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had offered only a cryptic explanation: “She said she had to leave, and then she left.”
And that was it.
She had vanished.
Lex had played and replayed every possible reason in his mind. Was she frightened by Hammond’s outburst? The man had been shrieking threats even as he was dragged bodily from the ring, his face a mottled red, spittle flying from his lips. Had she feared some reprisal? Or—worse—had she doubted Lex’s ability toprotect her?
He clenched his jaw at the thought. No. She had to know he’d move heaven and earth to keep her safe. She wasn’t some trembling miss. Edwina Sinclair had grit. Fire. She wasn’t easily rattled.
But still…she’d fled.
He had to find her. Reassure her. Tell her that whatever Hammond’s bluster, he, Lexington Capel, Earl of Essex, had more than fists to fight with. Hammond might be a slumlord with deep pockets, but Lex had influence. He held a seat in the House of Lords. He had allies. Power. And he would use every ounce of it to destroy Hammond’s hold on the city.
But more than that, he had to speak to Edwina. Had to make her see how deeply he felt. He’d wanted her from the moment he first saw her in that sheer green gown, hair like fire and eyes like whisky. But it had grown into something more—far more—than simple desire. After spending time with her, getting to know her mind as well as her body, he knew the truth: He wanted her not just as a lover. He wanted her as his wife.
He’d sent two carefully worded notes to the Sinclair townhouse in Berkeley Square. No reply. Not even a rejection. Nothing.
Which was why he found himself walking through the damp London streets that morning, coat collar turned up against the cold mist, hat low against the drizzle. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of coal fires, and the pavement gleamed with last night’s rain. Carriages clattered by, horses’ hooves echoing off brick walls and wrought iron.
The trees in Berkeley Square were stripped nearly bare, their remaining leaves rattling like parchment in the breeze. The square itself, usually a tranquil corner of Mayfair, felt unusually tense to him today—as though it, too, were holding its breath.
He didn’t know what she’d say. Whether she’d even see him. But he had to try. He needed to tell her everything.
Yes, he was in financial straits. That much was true. But hisfeelings for her far outweighed his pride.
He wanted to make her his. To spend a lifetime unraveling her mysteries, debating philosophy over breakfast, arguing about novels in the carriage. To learn every part of her—not just her thoughts, but her curves, her scent, the sound of her voice when she laughed and when she moaned.
His blood stirred at the memory of their last encounter—the way she’d gasped under his touch, the way her body had trembled against his. But he hadn’t gone far enough. Not yet. He wanted more. He wanted to worship her until she screamed his name and collapsed in his arms.
But more than that, he wanted to build a life with her. To make her his countess. To make her his equal in every way.
Tomorrow, he would return to Mansford House. The weight of responsibility was calling. He could no longer afford to remain in London, as much as his heart demanded he stay.
His estate manager, John Watson, had been more than understanding these past months. He’d agreed to stay on at reduced pay, not out of obligation but out of loyalty. John, his wife Mary, and their two children—William and Emily—had become something like extended family.
Lex and John had spent the last year poring over ledgers, inspecting properties, and assessing damage. His father’s death had left more than grief behind. It had left a financial disaster.
The family’s holdings were crumbling. Tenant homes needed repairs. Three of the four estates needed significant investment just to remain livable. And the fourth—well, he wasn’t sure it was even worth saving.
