“Pack,” he finished. “I know. I apologize for the inconvenience.”
A brief pause, in which the wordinconveniencehung in the air between them with the slight irony of a word they had already had cause to discuss. His eyes found hers, and theghost of something—warmth and the faintest trace of rueful acknowledgement—flickered in them.
“The ceremony will take place before the weekend. Thursday, most likely. Friday at the outside.”
“That is four days,” she pointed out.
“It is.” He pulled on the second glove and looked at her with an expression that was not unkind, but was entirely certain. “I realize it is not the wedding you would have chosen.”
The understatement of that landed somewhere between absurdity and something more painful, and she chose, carefully, to let it pass.
“No,” she uttered. “It is not.”
Something crossed his face then—brief and genuine, gone almost before it arrived, but she caught it. Not guilt, exactly. But something quieter. The expression of a man who was aware of what he was costing someone and had not yet decided what to do with it.
Then it was gone, and he inclined his head.
“I will send word about the arrangements.”
He moved toward the door, before he turned to look at her. His green eyes held hers for a moment that lasted slightly longer than it should have, with Brighton going about its business outside and the rest of her life waiting on the other side of the week.
“Good afternoon, Lady Cecily,” he said quietly.
Then he left.
Cecily stood where she was and listened to his footsteps in the hallway, his low exchange with the butler, then the front door closing. She stood there until the sound of the carriage had faded, the drawing room fell quiet, and there was nothing left of him except the faint impression of a presence that had rearranged the room around it and not entirely left.
Then the door opened, and her mother and Beatrice came back in, and the questions began. She answered them as best as she could.
CHAPTER 6
“You look,” James noted, dropping into the chair opposite with the unhurried ease of a man who had never once felt he was interrupting anything, “exactly like a man who has just done something irreversible and is being very dignified about it.”
William looked at him. “You’re late.”
“Twelve minutes. Practically punctual for me.” James signalled the waiter with the fluency of long habit and settled back, taking in the untouched whisky glass on the table between them with a mild, knowing look.
The Marlborough Club at half past two in the afternoon had the particular atmosphere of a place that took idleness very seriously. The whisky was excellent. The conversation, conducted in the low, unhurried tones of men who had nowhere pressing to be, shifted between horses and politics and the kind of gossip that everyone pretended to be above and no one actually was.
William had chosen the corner table. He did this automatically, without thinking about it—back to the wall, clear line to the door, full view of the room. An old habit, formed young and never entirely abandoned. His father had taught him that, in one of the rare moments he had bothered to teach him anything useful.
Always know your exits, William. Always know who is in the room before you decide who you are in it.
He had ordered whisky and was not drinking it.
“Well…?” James prompted.
“Don’t.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You have a face, James. It’s saying quite enough.”
“The whole of London is talking about you,” he said pleasantly. “I thought you should know, in case you’d somehow missed it.”
“I hadn’t missed it.”
“Lord Pembury’s wife mentioned it at the Hartleys’ dinner. Lady Ashford brought it up at cards last night. My own mother sent me a letter this morning.” He paused. “A letter, William. She wrote me an actual letter about your morning walk.”
