11
Her feet planted on the corner of Piccadilly and St. James’s Street, Tilly shifted from foot to foot, staving off the chill that wanted to creep in between the woolen layers of her clothes, and wondered what in the blazes had possessed her to agree to this.
A noble deed in this part of town where all the aristocratic midnight carousing happened?
As if the universe sought to illustrate her question, a gaggle of drunken, overloud lordlings staggered so close she had to step out of their way or be plowed over.
And even as she doubted her blooming mind for having agreed, she knew why she had.
Because it was Rhys who had asked.
She was right to doubt her mind.
Except it wasn’t only her mind making these decisions, but other parts of her, too—her fingers to touch him…her lips to kiss him…
And there was this other place, too.
A place in the center of her chest that by turns contracted and expanded and ached.
So much of her had been involved in the decision that had her standing on this street corner.
All of it sparked by that kiss last night.
Lawks.
The champagne bubbles still fizzed through her blood.
Others had noticed, too.
At the breakfast table this morning, Lucy had taken one look at her, then proceeded to giggle through the entire meal. Lord Percival had shot Tilly the lift of a single eyebrow. Isabel had been quiet in that respectful way of hers. And when Tilly said she was going out tonight on an errand—no more sneaking out for her—instead of asking what sort of errand she was embarking upon at night, Isabel had simply replied, “Tilly, be careful.”
Tilly knew what they all thought.
That she was carrying on with a wastrel rake.
And she supposed she was.
Except, her heart didn’t believe what the mind should on that front.
She believed Rhys.
He no longer wanted to be that wastrel rake.
He was trying.
And she felt a deep kinship with that sort of striving.
That striving to be better.
To better oneself.
Ahead, a pair of wasters managed to sort of cascade down the front steps of White’s without falling. She began to turn away and froze. One of those carousers—the tall one—had a very, very familiar way about him.
She squinted through the dim light.
In fact…that taller carouser wasn’t only familiar, he was none other than Lord Rhys Osborne shuffling up the street.
The flare of outrage that blazed through her was instantaneous.
