“Mr Lucas, sir, are you quite well?”
“Oh yes, Edgar. I’m well. I’m actually very well. Very well indeed.”
“That’s good to hear, sir. Why don’t you come into the parlour, sit down for a bit, and tell me all about it. I can make a cup of tea if you’d like?”
To Edgar’s astonishment, Lucas did just that. “Good idea,” he said, sitting in his favourite chair, leaning his head back and sighing.
Edgar moved nearer. Then paused. “May I assume you had a pleasant morning?”
“Mmm.”
“May I also assume that you spent some of it with the young lady who prefers lily of the valley perfume?”
Lucas shot him a glance. “Edgar, sometimes you are too clever for your own good.”
“Ah. Well then.” Edgar turned away. “I’ll make tea.”
Relaxing comfortably, Lucas glanced at the side table, and the small stack of cards resting on top of it. It was his customto take a quick look at them, and then give them to Edgar, who would then create a suitably correct response. Thus far, he had apparently discovered over a dozen ways to say “I appreciate the invitation but will be unable to attend.” He also had a few for the “Not even on a bet” notation. The “surely you jest” ones usually went straight into the fire.
Idly thumbing through them, one caught his attention, simply by virtue of the fact that Verity’s name was included as one of the attending guests at an art show, sponsored by Lady Beatrice Lockwood.
Interesting.
There was some other nonsense about pre-sale purchases for the honoured few guests, and the assurance that the artist, Albermarle de Montclair, was well known and celebrated far and wide. Apparently, he had galleries in Norwald and Fourdain, and a devoted following in Thornemar.
The ladies’ names were prominent... “Lady Beatrice Lockwood and Lady Verity Turner-Yardley cordially invite you to join a select gathering of art lovers at the renowned Aetherlight Gallery, where only the finest artists are featured, along with their unique and exclusive artworks.”
“Well.” Lucas snorted. “I wonder if I have a sufficient pedigree to be allowed in.”
“It’s not who are your parents, sir.” Edgar appeared at his side. “It’s about how much the left you in their will...”
“You, my tickerkin friend, are a frighteningly accurate, although cynical, observer of human nature.”
“Why thank you, sir. I shall take that as a compliment. I made tea but also brought wine.”
“You’re also absolutely invaluable.” Lucas reached for the wine glass. “And yes, you may remind me I said that the next time I throw a shoe at you.”
“I do not have the words to express my gratitude, Mr Lucas.” If a tickerkin could have snorted, Edgar would have done just that as he turned and rumbled out of the room.
Lucas fingered the envelope and the invitation. It sounded quite ordinary. Painfully so. But Verity would be there, thus he would attend as well.
There was also something else...something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Perhaps it would come to him later. In the meantime, he put the wine to good use, stuck his feet up on an ottoman, and let his mind roam.
Back to Verity—and lilies of the valley.
Chapter Seventeen
Verity was unaware that her fragrance was haunting a gentleman, although she’d probably have indulged in a private chuckle at the thought. Heaven knew it was difficult to focus on anything when almost every time she closed her eyes, she could see him, almost feel his warmth, so she certainly couldn’t throw stones if he was suffering the same way.
He was, she admitted to herself, the most unusual man she’d ever met. The combination of intellect, personality and looks had pretty much knocked her from her pedestal. The one she didn’t realise she’d been on—until she fell off it.
Heated thoughts chased her into sleep, invaded her dreams, and sometimes left her heavy-eyed in the morning, wishing she had another hour to languish in bed.
But she could not put her life on hold for such personal things; too many others were depending on her. There were several trips that had to be made; she’d set aside a couple of hours each week for them, and if her schedule slipped too much, there might well be comments and questions. The less people knew about Lucas Ashcombe, the happier she’d be. And so would he, come to think of it, since he was about the most private person she’d ever met.
And to thinkshe’dworried about being reclusive. Hah.
“Which gown today, m’Lady?” Sprocket stood at the ready, armed with pins, ribbons, a hat or two set aside, and a small glass perfume bottle carefully held in one claw.
