“I’m increasing, notdying,” she lamented to Clio on the second day. “You would think that I am wasting away, when, really, my waistline gains an inch every week.”
“That’s clever,” Clio said, gesturing with a biscuit. Shehadmissed the biscuits that Cook made. “I see what you did there.”
“Thank you,” Phoebe said. “But my point is, the longer you stay, the longer before I inevitably punch your brother in the mouth for suggesting that I would be more comfortable with my feet upone more time.”
So, Clio had felt welcome at her brother’s house. Downright welcomed.
But it did cross a line of outlandish aristocratic demand to have a ball gown—a great, unwieldy thing, no matter how you handled it—andher jewelry,andher hair things,and her maidbrought to Aaron and Phoebe’s house just so she could get ready there.
So, unwilling to give up her plan to go to the ball after she’d made such a whopping great deal of it, she chose the lesser of two evils.
She went home.
It was … a ridiculous non-event.
Nobody was eventhere. She didn’t see Hector. She didn’t see Matthew or his family—and she refused to ask any of the polite staff if they knew how the trustee meeting had gone. She firmly refused.
She didn’t even see Ramsay, whom she’d come to rely upon for a spot of friendly conversation before she’d retreated to Aaron’s house. She wondered if he’d gone back North. She’d miss him if he had. She’d be sorry not to have gotten the chance to say goodbye.
The natural extension of this thought caught her by surprise midway up the stairs, and she paused with her foot in midair.
What ifHectorhad returned to North?
The idea took her breath away. She looked frantically around for any signs—not that she knew what such signs would evenbe—but found that everything looked more or less the same.
She forced herself to keep going upstairs. She forced herself to take a bath and brush her hair. She forced herself to makecheerful conversation with her maid. She forced and forced and forced until she was primped and coiffed and tucked into the simply beautiful gown that hugged her so tightly that she wouldn’t be able to take a deep breath all evening, let alone eat anything.
She looked the part of the perfect duchess. She was briefly tempted to smash her looking glass, but she forced the feeling away.
She felt like a ghost of herself as she descended the stairs and waited for the carriage. She imagined a soap bubble around her, keeping her separate from the rest of the world. As long as the bubble didn’t pop, she would be fine.
A footman offered her a hand to help her into the carriage. She turned automatically to thank him and?—
And it wasn’t a footman.
It was Hector.
She nearly lost her footing.
“Careful, there, princess,” he said, and she wanted to sob at the nickname, at the feeling of his hands on her waist as he steadied her. “We’ve had enough carriage accidents to last us a lifetime, don’t you think?”
She could hear the effort behind the quips, could see that it cost him to pretend that everything was fine.
Well. That was all nice and good for him. She wasn’t going to pretend.
As soon as her footing was secure, she pulled her hand away from his. She couldn’t bear his touch, which was so lovely that it practically burned.
Her eyes burned, too, with unshed tears when he climbed up into the carriage behind her, then closed the door with them both inside. She noticed for the first time that he was wearing evening wear. It looked new; it was absolutely current, as far as fashions went, and it fit him perfectly.
She looked away. She didn’t know what he was doing. She couldn’t bear to ask.
“Clio,” he said, gently, when the carriage started to rumble down the cobblestone streets of Mayfair.
No. No, she couldn’tbearthis. She couldn’t handle pretending that nothing was wrong. She had thought she could play the dutiful wife tonight, but shecouldn’t.
“Hector,” she interrupted, her tone like iron. “What are you doing here?”
He cleared his throat, drawing her eyes. She realized, with a strange jolt, that he wasnervous.
