Desire.A gossamer-soft flutter tickled against her rib cage, like butterflies coming alive in the first rays of dawn.
“If you are heading to Hatchards, I had better go change into more suitable attire for a lady’s maid and come along, too.” McClellan’s gruff Scottish burr stilled such private thoughts as she wiped her hands on her apron.
In response, Charlotte muttered an unladylike word. Lud, how she resented all the silly strictures that hobbled her freedom.
The maid shrugged. “You’re a mysterious widow engaged to the most notorious bachelor in London. Polite Society is abuzz with curiosity. People will be watching you.”
“And hoping I do something outrageously awful.” She grimaced. “I’m tempted to oblige.”
“Wait until the vows are made. As a married lady—and one with a high-ranking title—you’ll merely be considered eccentric when you break the rules, not scandalous. Think of the Duchess of York.”
“How very reassuring,” said Charlotte dryly. The duchess was known for her menagerie of pets—including a number of exotic animals—which lived in sumptuous splendor at her country estate, as she much preferred them to people. “However, I shall do my best to stay out of the public’s eye.”
“You have an advantage there,” pointed out McClellan, “as you’re the one telling them what to see.”
“Mr. Gillray is just as influential as I am,” replied Charlotte. James Gillray was another of London’s sharp-eyed satirical artists, and his commentary was often more cutting than hers. “And his network of informants is very good. So let us have a care about spitting in the face of Luck.”
McClellan took up a pinch of salt from the dish on the stove and tossed it over her shoulder. “An old Scottish superstition for warding off evil.”
“I wouldn’t have expected you, of all people, to believe in such fiddle-faddle.”
“I may be pragmatic, milady, but I’m not stupid.” The maid wiped her hands on the front of her apron again, then untied the strings. “There is much we don’t understand about the workings of the universe, so it’s best to keep an open mind.”
It was very sage advice. For any number of reasons.
“Well, then, much as the rules of the beau monde make no sense to me, we had better go dress to play our roles of perfect propriety.”
An hour later, the two of them entered Hatchards, McClellan dutifully trailing a discreet distance behind Charlotte. They were early, and as Wrexford was nowhere to be seen, Charlotte wandered into the section devoted to books on flora and fauna, intent on looking for an illustrated volume that might interest Hawk.
Perhaps an edition of Maria Sibylla Merian’s art—
“Charlotta?” The voice floated out from one of the small nooks created by the shelves.
Marco.She sidestepped a pile of books on the floor and joined him within the secluded space.
“If Lord Wrexford is with you, let us move to a more public place,” he said, darting a quick look over her shoulder. “I’d rather not attend the rest of the symposium sporting a blackened eye.”
“He’ll be arriving shortly, but I promise you there will be no threat of bodily harm,” replied Charlotte. “I owe you an apology. Wrexford is . . . reserved. However, I’ve explained to him that he misunderstood your enthusiasm.”
“Hmmph.” Moretti’s expression betrayed a momentary flicker of injured pride.
Men.In many respects, they were far more sensitive than women.
“The earl strikes me as a fellow who doesn’t like to have his judgment questioned,” added her friend. His brows drew together. “Forgive me, but as an old friend, I feel beholden to say . . .” He cleared his throat. “To say that I hope you are not making a mistake. You were never a . . . how do you English say it . . . a wilting violet, so—”
“I assure you, there’s no cause for concern,” she cut in. “Wrexford and I are well matched. Yes, we butt heads on occasion, but I think it does both of us good.”
That drew a ghost of a smile. “Anthony was a trifle too delicate for butting heads. You were always very gentle with him.”
Their eyes met and a flash of understanding passed between them.
“As were you.” Charlotte shifted her stance. “But let us talk about the present, not the past. Are you enjoying the symposium?”
“Very much so. It’s a great privilege to meet members of the Royal Society, who are the leaders in botanical knowledge.” His face came alight. “Last night at Kensington Palace, I was introduced to Sir Joseph Banks!”
Sir Joseph was one of the luminaries of the scientific world.
“And as I mentioned,” he continued, “there is a possibility of a patron for my current work.”
