“It’s very brave to confront so many new things at once,” Alexandra told Mrs. Cuthbert. “Anyone might feel a bit overwhelmed.” She shot a look at Mrs. Pariseau, who understood that this was her cue.
“Yes, you’re very brave to do something new, Prudence, and a lot of new things at once can be hard on a person when it’s been a little while since you’ve ventured out,” Mrs. Pariseau added firmly.
“Do you really think I’m brave?” Mrs. Cuthbert lit up at this notion.
As everyone had noticed the magical reviving effect of the words on Mrs. Cuthbert, they nodded solemnly.
“Dot,” ventured Mrs. Dawson, her volume and pitch scarcely above that of a field mouse.
As it was the first voluntary word Mrs. Dawson had ever uttered in the sitting room, everyone’s head swiveled toward her.
“Please don’t be afraid. It was us. It was Simon and me, you see. We was just being silly and making noise. We didn’t mean to frighten you.” Her voice was shaking.
It was a brave, kind thing for Mrs. Dawson to do, as everyone in that room save Dot knew exactly what the Dawsons were doing. She’d said it because she didn’t want Dot to be afraid for a moment longer.
Dot’s immense relief was clearly tinged with just the slightest bit of disappointment.
“Oh! I’m glad you’re enjoying yourselves here at The Grand Palace on the Thames,” she said more cheerily. “I’ll go fetch the book.”
She whisked out of the room just as Delilah returned with the sherry and glasses.
Mr. Pike was bringing in the lamp from its hook when Magnus finally returned to The Grand Palace on the Thames for the day.
As his footsteps echoed across their black-and-white marble foyer, he cast a somewhat wistful glance at the sitting room, which was quiet and dark now.
In every quiet moment, the aftermath of last night visited him in fleeting, blinding surges: Exultation. Lust. Wonder. Uncertainty. Fear. Anger. Lust again. The kind that tensed his every muscle and seized his lungs and made his head feel as though it might launch from his body. It had seemed almost sacrilegious to go about his day on the heels of an event that felt as life-altering as buying his commission or getting shot in battle. But perhaps he was only mythologizing what had just been a very satisfying tumble.
For a man accustomed to making clearheaded decisions and moving on from them, he felt hobbled by his uncertainty, as if it was a dislocated limb. He was wise enough to know that no man could be trusted to be clearheaded about anything after a night of extraordinary sex.
Two days ago he had not been an earl; today he was. He felt no different. How odd it was to know that he was now the owner of estates in Kent and Surrey associated with his new title, and wealthier than even he had ever dared dream.
And yet rather than dwelling on this, more than anything he’d wanted to know whether Alexandra’sday had been similarly haunted by the memory of last night.
He’d meant to return to the boardinghouse much earlier. Five years was a long time to be away from London, and it seemed everyone wanted something from him: a meeting to discuss affairs of state or parliamentary affairs, or just to thank him, or to reminisce, and he found it difficult to deny them the time. He’d been briefly to White’s, and there he’d been compelled to hold court for a time by young men who’d hung on his every word. How grateful he was that he’d become someone who was considered to possess anything like wisdom, as well as skill.
He supposed that eventually all the disparate details of his life would assume some sort of routine. He could do some good in parliament.
Ironically, he found himself instead wishing he could go to New York and stay awhile, in a place civilized enough to be comfortable, but where few people would recognize him at first sight. A blank canvas of a place, where he could discover who he might be if he wasn’t leading men into battle. Who he might be if he wasn’t mourning a marriage that had never bloomed.
He found it difficult to imagine any future right now, in this moment.
His most important—and fruitful—meetings today had been with an editor ofThe Timesand the Duke of Brexford to sort out a bit of business. He had accomplished what he’d hoped to, andoh, it had cost him. But in the end, he had simply been unable to help himself.
He had also, for reasons he refused to examine too closely, stopped into his favorite London barber today for a close shave.
Save from the low glow of the remains of the fire, the suite was dark when he entered. So Alexandra had gone to sleep.
Perhaps this was for the best.
He set to stripping off his coat and cravat and waistcoat and shirt in preparation for toppling into bed, and put them away in his room. He briefly closed his eyes and paused by the fire instinctively as a cat to savor the last of its warmth on his bare skin. To this day it remained a reflex to snatch up every fleeting sensual pleasure he stumbled across as if it was a coin shining in the street.
When he opened his eyes again, he looked toward Alexandra’s door.
It was ajar.
His heart gave a single, hard jolt.
He stared at that hand’s span width of darkness like it was the entrance to Aladdin’s cave inThe Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.
