“Of course not. But I am afraid that you would not object, and I would not have the strength to restrain myself.”
Ottilie lowered her eyes.
“Am I wrong?” He asked.
She looked up at him. “I am six-and-twenty-years-old and capable of making my own decisions.”
“That is true, but I am not making this decision for you. I am making it for myself. I will not be the man who—”
“I think we are talking about two different things. I was only proposing that you kiss me, not that I become your mistress. To that, you can rest assured, I would say no.”
Jack smiled. He’d underestimated her. She did not need his protection, after all. “You are correct, Miss Hamilton. It is my heart I wish to protect. And that is the true reason I must send you away.” Jack turned and reached for the bell to summon Mrs. Wilson.
Chapter Eleven
And if I think, my thoughts comefast,
I mix the present with thepast,
And each seems uglier than thelast.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley,“Song for ‘Tasso’”
Ottilie tapped themetal nib of her goose-feathered quill pen against the writing desk and stared at the crisp, white page before her. She had been trying to write to Violet for two days, but the words would not come. Why? After all, she had good news to deliver. Jack Bastin would be coming to Canterbury Ladies’ College to give a live reading of his novel, or perhaps discuss the new epic poem he was writing. Yet, she could not make herself put the words on paper. Violet would read between the lines. She would know that Ottilie was keeping something from her, and she would worry.
Ottilie longed to confide in her friend, but she knew it wasn’t advisable to put such private matters in writing. Those were conversations best held in person. Ottilie sighed. She wished Violet were here. Indeed, she would leave for Canterbury immediately if Violet were there. But Violet was in Margate, enjoying a holiday at the seaside with her husband and twins. Of course, Ottilie could go to Margate. Every summer, Violet extended an open invitation for Ottilie to join them at the seaside. But Ottilie refused to interrupt Violet’s much-needed holiday only to burden her with her troubles.
“Is this where you have been hiding?” Lady Hudsyn swept into the library, her emerald-green dress trailing behind her. “I am pleased you have decided to stay home today.” Her aunt’s voice still carried a sour note.
“Actually, I’m thinking about returning to Canterbury. Henry’s not here, and I seem to be causing you nothing but embarrassment, so—”
“There’s no need to be dramatic. I never claimed to be embarrassed by you. I realize you enjoy independence in Canterbury, but the rules are different in Mayfair, and I only ask that you follow them.”
Ottilie put her quill down and slipped the writing paper into the desk drawer.
“Don’t stop writing your letter on my account. I do not wish to disturb you.”
“You haven’t disturbed me. The letter is not urgent; it can wait.”
Her aunt nodded and strolled to the bookshelves.
“Are you looking for something to read?” Ottilie asked, wondering what her aunt wanted.
Lady Hudsyn wiped her gloved finger across several books and inspected for dust. “Mrs. Wilson—your chaperone—she’s employed by Mr. Bastin, is she not?”
“She is, but you needn’t worry. Mrs. Wilson is a respectable widow.”
“She’s a housekeeper,” Lady Hudsyn snapped.
“Some people need to work to eat, Aunt. There is no shame in that.”
Lady Hudsyn swished toward a vacant chair beside the writing desk. “You seem rather enamored with this Mr. Bastin,” she said, seating herself next to Ottilie.
“I hardly know him. He is Henry’s friend and a talented writer, so I like him for those reasons.”
“I wouldn’t make too much of his friendship with Henry. My son is young and mistakes Mr. Bastin’s notoriety for talent. He needs to be steered in the right direction, and now I see that, despite your age, you require similar guidance.”
“I disagree.”
