If only the weather wasn’t so irritatinglyhot.It was now May, and a few days of showers had done nothing to lift the thundery fug that stifled all London. Her skirts clung and suffocated, elegant and light as they might be—yet again, she wore one ofhisgifts. There seemed to be an oven under her stays as she hurried along the pavement.
And she had to hurry—she was meant to be at Lord Cotereigh’s by now. Her aunt had been at the duchess’s house all morning, visiting the ballroom, working on her planning, but by now she’d be at Lord Cotereigh’s to visit Tom for his daily lesson. There would be more talk of the ball. Lord Cotereigh would probablyweigh in, knowing everything, knowing exactly what was modish and right. What a nuisance it all was.
She wasn’t nervous. It wasn’t that. She didn’t fear for the ball’s success—she trusted to the machinery of the duchess, her aunt, Mrs Littleton, and Lord Cotereigh himself. He wouldn’tallowthe ball to be anything other than a success.
It was eagerness that kept her chest constantly tight. Anticipation. To be finally done…
To have no reason for Lord Cotereigh to call. To have no reason for him to assess her every outfit with his slow stare. To have no reason to be invited to place after place and know he observed her, judging.
To not have to plan every moment so that she was never alone with him.
The memories would fade then. The warm solidity of his knuckles under her lips, his arm hooking her waist as though it was the thousandth time…
It was fighting those irritating, insinuating memories which left her feeling cross and worn thin. It was the absurd loneliness it had ignited.
She’d thought she remembered what it was like to be held by a man. She’d grieved that part of her life and buried it. But now it dragged itself back, haunting her…
She grieved the touch of a man itself. It was a living thing that hurt her; it was life itself, passing by…life on the other side of the veil…
She’d delayed too long at the hospital this morning, had spent too long letting the nursing chief persuade her to see another room and another patient, because anything, even death and disease, was easier than being there, withhim. Now she was late, and hot, and heading straight back to the furnace. Lord Cotereigh would probably laugh at her for all of it.
It is worth it, she told herself, teeth gritted as she stepped around another dawdler on the pavement.None of this is about you. Or even him. The cause is bigger and more important than either of you.
The committee was taking shape. As well as Captain Littleton and the Marquess of Pembroke, they had Reverend Moore, two more clergymen he’d found for them, a Mr Siddons, who was an old friend of her aunt, and Lord Cotereigh’s family doctor, Doctor Phillips.
Seven men. But only three of whom could reasonably be attributed to Lord Cotereigh’s required total of ten. Which was a fact she found herself unable to resist pointing out to him when she was finally composed and in command of herself on his sofa.
“But let us think about quality over quantity,” he replied, looking up from his letter.
They sat in the drawing room, Tom next to her, scowling over a book. Black locks fell over his brow as he wrinkled his face at the page, mumbling letter sounds. She was glad she’d made the effort to avoid shearing his hair. As she’d expected, under the grime he was a striking boy, despite—or perhaps because of—the fierce sharpness of his face.
Lord Cotereigh sat at a writing table nearby, attending to some correspondence. Her aunt knitted stockings—they were for Tom—the steady clack, clack of needles a familiar underpinning to many such previous visits.
“I’ve brought you a marquess—”
“Who you told me is unlikely to venture a word at any meeting.”
“But who will look wonderful on letters among all your clergymen and mere misters.”
“It’s MPs we need. Do you have any of those?”
“I keep a dozen in my pocket.”
She met his smile. It was mostly in his eyes. Like the darkest part of the night, they held an infinity of things, both wonderful and awful.
She’d be writing sonnets next. How embarrassing.
“Then bring them to the table,” she said.
She returned her attention to Tom and the book—only to look up a moment later and find Lord Cotereigh had abandoned his letter to come and stand by her knee. He looked down at the book on Tom’s lap, studying the page, but he spoke to her.
“I will get you MPs. I promise it.”
“I suppose you reallydoknow a dozen.”
His gaze lifted from the book. He smiled. That was answer enough. He knew most of London. And a good half really did seem to live in his pocket.
She’d met Mrs Fishbourne and apparently proved she wasn’t a radical harpy. The woman had invited her to a dinner attended by such august personages as the Duchess of Devonshire and Lady Jersey. They’d even spoken politics at the table—but of European royals and court and government ministers. Their politics was only another kind of social shuffling.
