The three days until her meeting with Aurora both flew and dragged. Dragged because her lockdown in Oscar’s home had become far more desperate. Even the gardens had become off-limits, and she could see he got nervous when she even put a toe on the terrace. Flew because she felt her time with Oscar swirling away like sands through an hourglass.
He kept talking about sending her away from London after she met with Aurora. He said it was temporary, but they both knew better. She’d already begun to come to terms with the fact that her life as she knew it was very much over. Whatever happened next, it would be a different chapter. Perhaps it would come with a new name and ultimately a new home. A new life. As what, she couldn’t imagine. She’d be useless as a servant thanks to her privileged upbringing. She had no idea how she would ever land a position as a lady’s maid without references or a history.
Perhaps if she went to the continent, she could continue with her original plans to become a courtesan. Only when she thought of another man touching her ever again…not Oscar, who knew her body like it was an instrument and he a virtuoso…
Well, she wasn’t thrilled by the idea. How could she pretend when all she’d do for the rest of her life was compare every man with the one who made it clear he didn’t want her, at least not forever.
But now here they were in his carriage, on the way to his club, where he’d agreed to let her meet with Aurora. Imogen sighed and hoped she was keeping her maudlin thoughts from her face. Oscar was staring out the window, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t entirely aware of her. He always seemed to be.
“We’re here,” he said, his voice rough.
He leaned away from the window, and that gave her a place to look. She leaned in as the carriage pulled up to a beautiful building with intricately carved pillars and a sweeping marble staircase that led to a red door. She looked across at Oscar.
“It’s wonderful,” she said. “You must be so proud of it.”
He blinked as if he were confused by that statement for a moment. “I didn’t build it. I just bought it. With my father’s payoff.”
She shook her head at the bitterness that laced his tone. “You made it a success without any help from him,” she insisted. “EvenI’dheard of your club before I met you and not just because Huxley was a member. It’s the place to be, even more than White’s. Your salons are more whispered about, your intellectuals more…”
“Intellectual?” he filled in with that flutter of a smile that made her heart leap and long for the very rare full expression.
“You have themostintellectual of them all, I’ve been assured,” she teased. Then her own smile fell. “Truly, Oscar. You should be proud of what you’ve built for yourself.”
He shifted as if her praise made him a little uncomfortable. The door to the carriage opened, and he motioned for her to exit first. “Wait until you see the inside of the place before you judge. Perhaps it’s shabby.”
She took the help down from the footman as she laughed. He followed and they walked up the stairs together. A butler was waiting at the door. He was stuffier than Oscar’s private butler, Donovan, who was everything proper but still friendly and capable of a smile from time to time. This man had no hair out of place and his tone was filled with gravitas as he intoned, “Mr. Fitzhugh, welcome back, sir. And welcome, madam.”
Oscar inclined his head. “Goodworth. Have all the arrangements been made?”
“Yes, the club was closed an hour ago and the last of the patrons left a quarter hour ago. There was much complaining, but your decree that we would provide a free entertainment next week was met with great enthusiasm.”
“Excellent. Mrs. Huxley’s guest should be here shortly. Please send her to us in the great parlor. We’ll await them there.”
“Very good. There is tea already there for you.”
The butler gave a smart bow as Oscar took Imogen’s arm and guided her down a long hall past multiple meeting rooms and parlors and into a large chamber with giant windows that overlooked the street below.
She gasped as she looked around her. She had never been in a men’s club. It was forbidden. But she had always pictured them as stuffy places, thick with smoke and wrinkled newspapers and monotonous voices droning on about politics and the prices of barley.
But this hall was light and airy, tables spread through it and comfortable leather chairs and a settee by the fire and more chairs overlooking the windows. A sideboard was set against the wall opposite those same windows, with a wide selection of bottles lined up in perfect order.
“Oh, Oscar,” she breathed. “It’s wonderful.”
She pivoted to face him, hands clasped together, and found his cheeks were actually bright with color. He was blushing, and she found it almost as charming as those rare hints of a smile he sometimes allowed.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “We have worked hard to make it thus. It was Will’s club to begin with. It was struggling and I bought in as an owner. We changed the name to Fitzhugh’s because, obviously, White’s was already very much taken.”
She smiled at the quip. “Do you like the work?”
“I do,” he said, and he looked around almost as if he were seeing the room for the first time, too. “The membership is more diverse than in other clubs. We have the titled, of course. There is no avoiding that if one wants to be successful, but I’m much more interested in catering to those without title or family connection. Men who are building themselves up through industry and science, freedom and justice. If our salons are spoken about, as you said in the carriage, it is because our membership is collectively great of mind.”
He was passionate as he spoke, as passionate as he often looked when he touched her, took her. His dark eyes were bright and intense and his hands moved in animated fashion.
She smiled because she couldn’t help it. His enthusiasm, so often muted by design, was impossible to deny.
“Why are you looking at me that way?” he asked, shifting slightly.
She shook her head. “You’re very charming, Mr. Fitzhugh.”
