Before she’d felt him watching her, she’d already been caught in the emptiness of her need. When she’d caught him watching her, the vacuum had widened, expanded.
She wasn’t so oblivious that she would fool herself into thinking he was seriously interested in her. He’d pitied her—as had nearly every other guest who’d lowered themselves to speak with her tonight. Likely, she’d be criticized for sullying this charming young man with her company.
But he wanted her. Of that, she was fairly certain.
He was younger than her thirty years, perhaps closer to five and twenty. And he had an odd innocence about him.
“Are you as angelic as people say?” she asked.
He glanced sideways at her with raised brows and for a moment, she was lost in the blue of his eyes. Not grayish-blue or greenish-blue. If a perfect blue existed, it would be the color of Peter Spencer’s eyes.
“Depends on who you ask,” he answered. “My mother would be inclined to say yes but any of my siblings would disagree.”
She couldn’t imagine having family like that.
“Do you have brothers and sisters?” he asked.
“No.” She’d been raised by her widowed father. And Mrs. Lemur, her governess. “I was an only child. My mother died shortly after I was born.” Their steps echoed loudly on the shining floor.
“My sympathies that you didn’t know your mother but also my congratulations that you didn’t have siblings to torment you.” He opened the French door and gestured for her to precede him into the shadowed garden.
“I always wanted a brother or sister.” Odd thing for her to tell him. But it was sweet that he’d pretend interest in her, in any of the meaningless details of her life.
His sweetness made her feel jaded—jaded at the age of thirty. And guilty that she would defile him with her need.
Before marrying Lord Starling, she’d thought she’d enjoy being a widow—being answerable to no one. And yet she’d come to depend on his company—on his affection. Her husband’s death had left her feeling empty—lonely. Perhaps it was this loneliness that unhinged her tonight. One too many snubs had cracked her armor.
A breeze stirred the leaves overhead, and the murmuring voices of the guests all but disappeared when the door closed behind them.
She half-expected him to slide one hand around her waist—and then lower—she’d invited him outside alone, after all. Instead, he tucked her hand into his arm again, leading her onto a wide garden path.
He’d told her he wasn’t interested in walking with a Mayfair maiden. He’d said he was interested in walking with her. Heat spread to her core as she imagined how his interest might play out. They’d walk a little farther… Would he feign romance? Kiss her first? It was easier sometimes when they did not.
Torches burned at various intervals, shedding light on the flagstone walkway. They had been spaced far enough apart, however, that a couple could easily stop in the shadows.
He would kiss her. It would not be clumsy. He embodied a gracefulness most men lacked. But would that kiss be youthful and innocent? Or did he hide a secret wickedness?
“I wouldn’t trade my sister and brothers for the world.” He spoke matter of factly, without expectation, as though this was to be the most innocent of strolls. “I am lucky to have them.”
She’d accustomed herself to absorbing undercurrents of censure in most of her conversations. She sensed none from him.
“But families will go their separate ways. Eventually. They marry, they abandon you,” she added, almost to validate her own life in some way. “They die.”
“I suppose.” He sounded thoughtful. “You don’t get on well with your husband’s sisters?”
She had tried. When she’d received the invitation to stay with them in Brighton this spring, she’d been hopeful for their acceptance.
“I had hoped…” She sighed. “But their welcome came along with the stipulation that I hand over my inheritance.”
“Surely, Miranda, you must know Baldwin made a mistake when he left his investment accounts to you.” Her late husband’s youngest sister, Susan, had waited two days into Miranda’s visit before commencing their campaign.
“He always intended it to be put back into the estates,” Agnes tacked on.
Because Agnes’s son, Peregrine, had inherited the title and all that came with it. Tenant rents provided more than adequate income, and there had been trusts set aside for each of them, but in their opinion, it wasn’t enough.
They hated that he’d left her anything, let alone the bulk of his unentailed wealth.
“Thatisunfortunate,” Mr. Spencer said in a level voice.
