“Just say it, Haddington.”
His friend leaned forward. “My Marianne is a lovely girl. Well behaved, no scandals, mature for her age, and more than capable of managing a household. And sharp as a blade, a fact that works against her with most men but I think you’d appreciate.”
It was worth considering. A woman with unconcealed intelligence was a rare thing in society and he didn’t have any reason not to consider the chit.
“I’ll save a quadrille for her Friday. But for God’s sake, don’t go making her any promises.”
Haddington smacked at the table. “I wouldn’t want to get her hopes up. But with any luck, this could be an extraordinary union.” He excused himself and followed after the others to the card room.
“I’m sorry about that,” Edward said to his cousin.
Dunburton twisted his glass, his eyes on the wavering scotch. “You don’t need to apologize. I lost my wife; that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t seek one.”
“Still, you don’t need the reminder of it.”
Graham’s chuckle was dark. “The reminder? There’s not a day that goes by when I don’t think of how spectacularly I failed her.”
“It wasn’t your failure,” Edward said. Graham had loved Eliza. He’d spared no expense trying to make her happy, and yet she’d been so desperately unhappy that she’d done the unthinkable.
“I fell in love with a shopgirl, and instead of letting her live in the safety of her bookstore, I insisted she marry me. I thought I was giving her the fairytale.”
Instead, Eliza had married into a nightmare. The thought sent shivers down Edward’s spine as it always had.
A fish out of water dies gasping.
Graham’s wife had been the punchline to every joke and on the receiving end of endless criticism. The vultures didn’t try for discretion; the hurtful comments were always said just in range of Eliza’s hearing. She’d been ridiculed and isolated, just as Fiona would have been had he been selfish enough to marry her.
No, there was only one option for men like them—to find a wife that fit society’s mold.
***
On arrival home, Edward had meant to go straight to his rooms. He truly had. But nostalgia gripped him, and he couldn’t shake free of it. He had mastered the art of not thinking about her years ago. He could go days, weeks even, without her crossing his mind.
Now that she’d crashed back into his life, he couldn’t go seconds without the desire to see her.
Apparently, with Simmons’s reluctant approval, Fiona had taken over the blue drawing room as her makeshift laboratory. Edward stood to the edge of the open door watching as she poured liquid from different beakers into a wide, shallow dish. She was in fresh breeches and a cotton shirt but no jacket or waistcoat, giving her the freedom to work unencumbered.
Her hair was no longer concealed by a cropped wig. It was tied in a simple queue that barely contained her curls. The lamplight turned the red tresses into a blazing halo of flame. He wanted to sink his hands into it, to breathe it in. It would smell of jasmine, a scent he’d banned from the house for the way it stirred up memories.
This was the Fiona he loved—industrious, whip smart, driven. There was no simpering from this woman intent on changing the world. There was no pandering. She cared not a whit for what society expected of her.
It made her fascinating. It made her captivating. And it left him feeling hollow.
Chapter 9
Fiona smoothed her heavy grey skirts, taking comfort in the weight of the bag on her lap. Mr. Duchamp was the first of four distributors she was meeting today and the first of fifteen she was meeting this week. She stilled the nervous drumming of her foot, but each time her eyes traveled to the clock on the wall, thetap, tap, tapstarted up again.
A clerk entered from a back room, pausing when he saw her, before taking a seat behind the desk. “May I help you?”
She stood, the bag swinging heavily in one arm. She grabbed the handle with her second hand, bringing the bag to rest in front of her—a leather shield hiding her nerves. “Miss Fiona McTavish from Asterly, Barnesworth & Co., here to see Mr. Duchamp. I have an appointment.”
The clerk gave her the same condescending, top-to-toe inspection she’d experienced in the patent office. She worked hard to keep a pleasant smile on her face as he gawked and, not for the first time, she wished she’d taken Amelia’s offer for a lesson on delivering a charm offensive.
At the time, she’d been convinced her work would speak for itself and that charm wasn’t necessary. But Amelia could have taken the clerk’s patronizing look and turned him into a stumbling mess. Instead, he lifted a single, sarcastic eyebrow. “I’ll enquire as to Mr. Duchamp’s availability.”
She breathed in deeply, tamping down her frustration. “Yes, but as I said, I have an appointment. At nine this morning. It’s nine, so I suspect he’s available.” She widened her plastered-on smile.
The clerk didn’t even bother with a response before he disappeared through the doors behind his desk.
