And as Lady Wisterberg had warned, she had appeared in the gossip columns. But it was more amusing than alarming:
The season has suddenly been enlivened by the mysterious appearance of a certain captivating miss, who appeared from nowhere like an angel on high wearing last year’s green dress to waltz with the devilish Lord K—— who hasn’t danced at a ball for nearly a decade.
“Angel on high” was a bit much, though she didn’t hate the notion of being found captivating. But the “devilish” bit worried her and made her furiously indignant on Lord Kirke’s behalf. Did nobody know him at all? Surely he wasn’t kind only to her? Was it necessary to hurt his feelings? For wouldn’t it?
The “last year’s dress” stung far more than she’d thought it might. She supposed if the same little wound was lashed again and again, it was bound to eventually throb.
And for heaven’s sake, she thought acerbically. If whoever had written this was so very particular about fashion, they ought to have recognized that her dresses were fromtwoyears ago.
But if this little item was the extent of consequences of which Lord Kirke had warned, she expected she could cope very well.
If he’d noticed or read it, he’d said not a word to her.
For the past week, Lord Kirke had been present at dinners at The Grand Palace on the Thames four days per week as the rules required, and in the sitting room, where he and Mr. Delacorte took turns vanquishing each other at chess and gloating or muttering darkly in loss, as the case may be. He then retired to the mysterious smoking room with all the men of the boardinghouse, and who knew what went on in there apart from smoking.
Paradoxically, given her new popularity, the favorite part of her days were now the nights.
She would lie in her night rail beneath the soft blankets and listen to the house creaking and sighing as everyone settled into their beds. It was the coziest feeling to be surrounded by people she liked, all tucked into individual little cubbies.
Night was the only time she had Lord Kirke to herself anymore.
But only the sounds of him. She could sometimes hear him pacing across his room, or sliding his chair back. She imagined him plowing his hands through his hair in frustration, thinking his grand thoughts, writing a speech.
Getting out of his clothes.
His coat, first.
Unwinding his cravat.
Pulling his shirt off over his head.
Sliding off his trousers.
Pulling off his boots.
She imagined all of this in sequence, for the fascinating pleasure of shortening her own breath.
And then, at last, there always came the littlethunkshe now recognized as him settling into his bed.
Because the fuse he had lit when he’d touched her during the waltz had burned low, but constantly. It was disturbingly clearer and clearer that this wasn’t the sort of fire that went out if left unattended.
If she paid it one glancing bit of attention—if she fed it the kindling of her imagination—it flared hotter.
Which beset her with an exquisite restlessness. When she thought of him, parts of her body would thrum for all the world like struck instruments.
This fuse—and therefore, he—had been ever with her over the past week, when she was riding in a carriage in the Row, and meant to be admiring the fine figures of young men riding on horseback alongside, and returning their smiles and tipped hats with nods; when she was taking tea with matrons, any one of whom could very well be the mother of her future husband; when she was attending a picnic with Lucy and more young men to which Lady Hackworth had also been invited. Lady Hackworth had invited her to a salon at her house, but had asked her not to tell Lucy.I’m afraid we only invite people who intrigue us, she’d said, under her breath.
Lady Hackworth made her uneasy. And yet, there was something seductive in being found intriguing enough to invite to an exclusive salon. She’d had no sense of herself before outside of the context of the country. She’d thought she’d known herself well. But was shetrulysingularly intriguing, and hadn’t realized it? Was this why Lord Kirke had paid any attention to her at all?
And... was Lord Kirke conducting an affair during the hours she didn’t see him?
She did not know why this possibility should be both a torment and a titillation. She could not reconcile this admittedly scandalous notion with the flash of aching panic she’d seen in his face when he’d caught her in a moment of despair. Just before the waltz.
Would a devilish man truly be concerned about her? For she thought he genuinely cared.
Because he was her friend. Wasn’t he?
And yet.
