***
The ride to Edward’s house was made in silence. She didn’t have the inclination to fight anymore. What was done was done and, overbearing attitude aside, this situation she found herself in wasn’t exactly his fault. In fact, one could say that she should be grateful for his intervention. Overbearing attitude aside.
But nonetheless she was not inclined to make small talk with a man who walked in and out of her life as he pleased, so instead, she kept her eyes firmly focused on what lay outside his richly appointed carriage.
By the time they reached his residence on Mayfair, it was a different London to the one she’d been through that morning. The people who walked the street—even the servants in their simple clothes—were plump, their faces smiling.
They stopped outside Wildeforde House, a large ornate home that occupied nearly the entire block, waiting for a nanny and children to walk past before the carriage could turn into the long driveway that swept in a curve and ran the length of the home.
The door opened and a footman flipped down the carriage steps.
Edward exited. He turned and lifted his hand, as if to help her out, but then dropped it with a grimace. No doubt his conscience was warring between what was “right”—helping a lady out of a carriage—and what looked “proper”—which was definitely not giving his spotless hand to a dirt-covered, jail-worn lad.
She made it easy for him and hopped down without assistance, trailing him up the stairs. He stripped off his gloves and handed them to a sturdy, bald-headed man with thin spectacles.
She was vaguely aware of the butler saying something to her, but she was too stunned by what she was seeing to hear.
The marble floor of the foyer was flanked by curving marble staircases on either side. The walls, which felt as if they went up and up for days, were covered in art piece after art piece, no doubt each one worth more than every home she’d lived in combined.
The one time she had been to Edward’s estate in Abingdale she’d just been blindsided by the news that the Karstarks were planning to turn her home into a hunting ground. She hadn’t paid much attention to the grandeur of where he lived. Her focus had been on her shoes or on the tails of the butler’s coat, and eventually, on Edward’s face as she begged for help—the last thing she wanted to ask of anyone, let alone him.
But. This.
Her jaw went slack as his wealth belted her up the back side of the head.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
How idiotic she’d been to imagine a future with the two of them together. When they’d been lying together in her father’s hayloft, making constellations out of the knots of wood in the roof, she’d been thinking of them lying together in their bed, in a house with at least three rooms, with a fire in every hearth and food always in the larder.
Her wildest thoughts didn’t even align with the reality of his foyer.
He’d been right to hide his true self from her. If she’d known that this was his life—this obscene pomp and grandeur—she would never have fallen for him. Only a foolish girl would swap a regular life for one like this. To be mistress of such a place would come at the expense of freedom she was not willing to give up.
Edward’s pace slowed as he approached an older woman with iron-grey hair, a perfectly starched dress, and a stiff, expressionless face to match.
As he spoke, the battle-axe woman’s eyes zeroed in on Fiona’s hips, her chest, her hairline. Fiona’s outfit had fooled dozens of men, but she had no confidence that she was fooling this woman.
Edward faced her and she shook herself, forcing her senses to catch up. “This is our housekeeper, Mrs. Phillips. She’ll show you to your room.” He turned to Mrs. Phillips. “I’ll be dining at the club tonight. Send one of the more prudent maids with a tray toFinley’sroom at eight. We’ll discuss this further when I return.”
Within a handful of seconds, before she could make any coherent objection, he’d walked back out the front door, clearly making good on his promise not to see or speak to her.
Arrogant, pretentious bastard.
Twenty-year-old Fiona had been a naïve twit to have fancied herself in love with him. The overbearing, controlling duke considered himself above everyone except the king. But she had to thank him. For a few weeks he’d convinced her that maybe she could rely on someone else, that it didn’t have to be only her against the world. Then he’d ripped that illusion away.
She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
She’d overcome barriers an entitled lord couldn’t even dream of. He thought himself stone and granite. But he was soft, like all of the upper class. Edward had no idea what real life was truly like, which meant he’d never truly understood her. She clearly hadn’t known him, which meant they’d never truly been in love.
She was best avoiding him wherever possible. If she could get through the month without having another conversation with him, that would be a success.
Mrs. Phillips ran an assessing eye over Fiona, probably wondering what kind of criminal the esteemed Duke of Wildeforde would bring home to stay in his guest quarters. “Come with me, miss…?” The accusation hung.
“McTavish. Fiona McTavish,” she muttered.
The housekeeper crossed the foyer at a quick clip to one of the grand staircases that flanked the hall.
Fiona looked back to where Edward had gone. When she turned forward again, Mrs. Phillips was frowning. “Guests are in theeastwing. If you think you might get lost, don’t.”
