Except for this time, Marcus just might be wrong.
Lady Blakely Indeed
Emily changed into one of her newer dresses but then found herself lost as to what to do on her own. It was as though she’d been put away for the evening.
Something she’d experienced in the past, but she’d not been bothered by it before. The chamber she’d been given had been decorated in florals and pastels, obviously meant for a woman. Everything a lady could possibly need: vanity, fainting couch, and a large canopied bed raised nearly four feet from the floor. A few doors lined the wall to the left of a balconied window.
Opening one, Emily entered a rather large dressing room, outfitted with a small bed for a lady’s maid.
Drawing her hand along the gold molding, she wondered if she ought to consider hiring herself one of those. All her own. A lady to assist with dressing, her hair, and the care of her wardrobe.
All things Emily would give up easily enough.
She would have more time to read, set up a few experiments she’d been contemplating, and maintain her own garden.
Even though Marcus planned on abandoning her quickly enough, she ought to be happy to preside over her own home.
Her own home.
The concept gave her pause.
She strolled out of the dressing room and opened the next door to find a sitting room, elaborately furnished but quite dated.
And then another door.
This one opened up to a masculine chamber. Another, larger canopied bed with thick oak railings rather than the slim floral design on her own.
Separate chambers.
It’s for the best.
A chill floated through the air, despite the warm weather outside. What was it about this place? So cold. So cheerless…
Heartless.
Marcus’ childhood home felt heartless.
With one last glance at the bed, she spun around and returned to her own chamber. At least the sun slanted through the one window near the bed. And the colors of the tapestries warmed the room.
But Emily could not sit around in here indefinitely, so she did what she had done all her life.
She went looking for the library.
And oh, but she was not disappointed. Perhaps, in fact, this library might redeem the entire property.
The shelved walls reached three stories high, and in one corner of the room, shaped much like a turret, the shelves reached even higher.
Ah. Yes.
Just as she approached one of the ladders, however, the door opened, and her privacy was interrupted.
“Lord Quimbly?” She nodded deferentially. She would excuse herself. Something about this man sent goose flesh crawling over her flesh. Down her neck, her arms. And then a tremor ran through her.
Although likely well into his sixth decade, the man appeared burly and fit. A pomaded mustache curled down the creases by his mouth, nearly meeting the points of his shirt.
Well dressed. Clean.
It was his gaze that discomfited her.
