She realized the coach had stopped. The kiss did too. He continued holding her, his firm hands angling herface up toward him. He gazed deeply into her eyes, then released her, opened the carriage door, and hopped out.
She stepped down. They were a block away from the school. He reached in and retrieved the glove box and books and handed them to her.
“You are in time, I hope,” he said.
She walked toward the school, in a daze, noting with unseemly specificity the various ways in which that kiss had aroused her. He escorted her, not speaking either. When they parted in front of the house, he gave her the lightest kiss on the cheek. She felt it on her skin the whole time she walked around the building and into the garden.
***
“Wait here,” Ives told the coachman upon walking back. “I am going to take a turn.”
He headed down the street in the direction opposite the school. The last light of evening still streaked the western sky with blood orange hues, but night had fallen on the streets. He worried that Mrs. Ludlow would catch Padua returning, and wondered what would transpire if she did.
Try as he might to occupy his mind with such concerns, the effort proved futile. Rather his thoughts veered to the impulse that led him to kiss Miss Belvoir, and the other impulses that he had, just barely, suppressed while he did so.
It had been mad. Stupid. Unworthy of him. He did not impose on young women. He did not steal kisses.He arranged that part of his life with discretion and measured care. Not for him the seductions of virtuous females. His women were experienced and willing, and all had been mistresses to other men before him. He did not lead them into the life, and as far as he knew none of them wanted a different one.
And yet this evening—he should be calculating how to make amends, and forming words of apology. He sure as hell should not have this spring in his step. The smile he could not get off his face would be damning if anyone saw it.
It would never do. She would never do. He would never do for her. Even if this business with her father would not make a muddle of anything further—and there could be nothing further, would not be, of course,definitely, he swore—she was not the woman for him.
Yet he had enjoyed that kiss far more than he had enjoyed a first kiss in many years, and now allowed himself some prolonged delight in its fresh, clear pleasure while he circled several blocks, castigating himself to little avail.
***
Padua noted with dismay the lights coming from the upper windows. When she pushed open the garden door to the house, she paused and listened for sounds that might indicate some of the girls had already finished their meal.
“I thought this might be how you would return.”
The statement made Padua stiffen. She clutched thebox and books to her chest. Mrs. Ludlow stepped into the chamber, carrying a candle. The light made her face look like that of a sad, plump ghost.
“I had family matters to attend to again,” Padua said, hoping she sounded innocent.
“I expect you did.” Mrs. Ludlow set the candlestick on a table. “I have been looking for you, to talk about that family matter that occupies you these days.”
Padua’s heart sank. “What do you mean?”
“I think you know.” She sighed, then came over. “I received a letter from Mr. Peabody. He is a solicitor. Did you know that? His daughter often speaks of you, and the name Belvoir thus garnered his attention when he learned of a man of that name who has been put in prison, to be tried for counterfeiting.” She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “Please tell me this is not a relative. If you only say it is not, I will believe you.”
Padua set down her books and box, and took Mrs. Ludlow into her arms. “I will not lie to you. I had hoped, until the trial, there would not be too much notoriety.”
“Oh, dear. Oh, my.” Mrs. Ludlow wept. “I dare not— I am sorry but—”
“I will leave at once. Tonight.”
“Tonight! I hope I do not have to throw you onto the street at night.” She sniffed. “Do I?”
“It might be best.”
“Where will you go?”
“I will find someplace.” With thirty pounds in her dress, she expected she could find someplace. Thankgoodness Papa had hid that money. Thank goodness she had found it.
“No. I’ll not have it,” Mrs. Ludlow said, collecting herself. “Tomorrow is soon enough. You will sleep here, and eat breakfast, and we will tell the girls then. You will say good-bye, and if Mr. Peabody does not like it, that is too bad. This is my school, not his.”
Padua kissed her forehead. “You have always been kind to me. I thank you for that.” She picked up her books and box, and went up to her chamber.
She began packing, telling herself that all would be well. In truth she felt sick. The future appeared to her as a vast gray ocean, with no land in sight and no hope of rescue. She had been content here. She had not been alone. Now, no matter where she went, she would not even have the home this school had been.
