He arched a brow. “A Season.”
She nodded slightly, a wave of melancholy sweeping over her. She would miss Lord Bolton and the outrageous conversations they had shared. But now he knew what she wanted, and she would no longer be wasting his time.
“If I had a Season to give, I would.”
“You are not even willing to give a month, so forgive me if I do not fully believe you.”
“If my circumstances were not what they are, then I would be agreeable, or until you tired of me.” Then he smiled. “Not that you would.”
Octavia chuckled. “Then I must take your word as the truth as I will never know.”
“I had my own plans for this Season,” he said after a moment. Bolton lifted his glass and crossed the room to refill it with brandy. Octavia thought he would have made a quick exit, yet he remained.
“I truly would give you a month, Octavia, but I am not certain if that is possible.”
“You do not need to explain.”
“I do,” he said before taking a drink. “I thought I had time before responsibilities claimed me. Now my father is ill.”
Her heart sank. She remembered losing her parents and it had been horrible.
“I made a promise to him that I would wed by Christmas, and we are hopeful that he will still be present to witness the exchange of vows. I also promised that I would look for a wife during the Season, though I have no intention of becoming betrothed before November and will wed in December.”
“You are going to put it off until the last moment.” She couldn’t help but chuckle.
“I still must look for her among Society,” he said. “It is easiest to do so during the Season—this Season. Given the circumstances and knowing that my freedom would soon end…that this would also be my last Season of freedom, I thought to enjoy a debauched life, for soon it will end.”
“Debauchery is not a month-long commitment,” she observed.
He looked to her, sadness in his eyes. “No.”
“I do thank you for your honesty, Lord Bolton.”
He stared at her for the longest time, then strolled to the window. “The rain has finally stopped.”
She joined him. “And others are once again about, going to various functions or the theatre.”
He turned toward her and took Octavia’s hands. “I still remember your first rule.”
“Discretion.”
“I will leave through the back so that nobody sees me. I would not have our initials appear again because I am seen leaving your home.”
“Thank you.” She really did appreciate his consideration.
It was then that he leaned forward, his warm lips on her cheek, then a tender kiss before he withdrew. “I have enjoyed coming to know you, Octavia, and I am truly saddened that this did not work out as I had hoped.”
“Me as well,” she said, then watched as Lord Bolton quit the drawing room.
She did not follow but remained where she was and imagined him retrieving his soaked boots and hoping they were somewhat dry now. Then he would don his suitcoat, and then ask the butler to let him out through the back. It had grown dark, but he would still be recognized.
For the longest time she watched the street, hoping he did not emerge from the front of Crispin’s home, and hoping for one last glance, but Lord Bolton was not seen again.
Heart heavy, she picked up his glass of brandy and drank what remained, then made her way to her chamber, wondering if she was asking for too much.
Angelo could find no enjoyment tonight. He had danced with misses and ladies in search of a husband and gave them the attention they deserved, but not one inspired him to ask for a second dance, nor did he have any desire to call on any one of them. He’d also danced with widows and even went into the garden with two, but neither stirred any desire, not even the want of a kiss.
The fault lay with Octavia.
