No doubt, Countess Sutton would also turn her away. However, they were leaving for London at the end of this week, and Livy could think of no way to stop it.
*
Cilla
Papa had riddenmost of the way from home to the inn where they would stop for the night. He said he could not be confined in a coach with Livy while she was sulking. Cilla knew better on both counts. Papa got sick in carriages and would ride on his horse even in the rain to avoid such embarrassment.
And Livy was not sulking but anxious. When Livy was worried, upset, or frightened, her response was to snap and snarl. For Cilla’s sake, she had been trying to keep her mouthshut on all the angry comments she wanted to make. The result was what her father called a sullen silence.
Truly, though neither Livy nor Papa would appreciate the comparison, the pair were more alike than they cared to think. Papa could not see that Livy’s sniping was a defensive measure, used when she felt threatened or out of sorts, and Livy refused to believe that Papa’s complaints and remonstrations arose from bewilderment over and concern about his elder daughter.
At least with Papa not in the carriage, Livy was able to relax. Since neither of them suffered from Papa’s complaint, they took it in turns to read out loud. They speculated about who might be in Town that they had met at Aunt Ginny’s house party. They discussed fashions, for the first order of business, Aunt Ginny had written, was to see to their wardrobes.
Even Barker, their shared maid, joined the conversation instead of insisting on the distance she assured them was only proper. Barker was a devoted reader of Ackerman’s and other fashion periodicals, and had strong opinions about how to turn them out to do her credit.
It was a long day, though, and Cilla felt stiff and achy when she climbed down from the carriage at the inn. God bless Papa, who had arrived first and ordered a hot bath to be set up in their room as soon as they arrived. They had a cup of tea in their private parlor while footmen with buckets hurried to and from the bedchamber under Barker’s supervision.
Dinner would be served in the private parlor, too, Papa told them. They would have time for a leisurely soak before dressing for the meal. Livy rolled her eyes. Cilla knew what she meant. It did seem silly to dress for dinner when it was only the three of them, and when they had been traveling all day.
But such was the way things were done in the upper classes. Papa was ever mindful of the manners of those he wished hisdaughters to emulate. There was no point in objecting, and fortunately, Papa didn’t see Livy’s eyeroll.
Livy had the first bath. Cilla had realized that the gown she wished to wear the next day—the one in which she would be arriving in London—was packed in the trunk that was still on the second carriage. Barker said she could fetch it, but Cilla wanted to stretch her legs, so she claimed that she wasn’t sure what she wanted. They both headed downstairs after locking the door to the suite the girls were sharing.
Cilla was slightly in the lead as they turned the corner of the stairs. As she did so, a gentleman appeared, going up the steps as they went down. And later she thought it was possible she had been hurrying. Or perhaps the gentleman was, for they collided, Cilla slipped and would have fallen, and he clutched her to him until she found her feet again.
She looked up into green eyes to give her apologies and her thanks, and the words died on her lips. It was the man they had mistakenly attempted to dunk on Misrule Night. Drake Sanderson. His name was etched in her mind, in the place where embarrassing memories were kept.
“I do apologize, Miss,” he said. “I hope you are unhurt.”
He had a warm voice that set something in her shivering, and not in an unpleasant way.
“I am unhurt,” she agreed. “You caught me. Thank you.”
Barker cleared her throat, and Mr. Sanderson started and removed his hands from Cilla’s waist. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Again.” He had taken a step backward and down, so that her head was now a little above his. Fair, curly hair and those startlingly green eyes. A handsome face with a firm jaw, strongly marked brows, and a three-cornered smile.
The memory of him stripped to his breeches stopped her breath for a moment as she stared at him and he gazed back.
Her maid coughed, and then said, “Miss, we need to get back to your sister.”
Mr. Sanderson blinked as if waking from a dream, and Cilla felt exactly the same—as if they had met in a place out of time and wordlessly shared something to treasure.
“May I have the privilege of knowing the name of the lady with whom I collided?” Mr. Sanderson asked. “I am Drake Sanderson, and I am on my way back to London, where I live.”
Cilla waved Barker’s incipient protest into silence. “I am also traveling to London, with my sister and my father,” she admitted. “My aunt, Lady Marple, is bringing me out this year. I am Lucilla Wintergreen.” After all, how could he find her if he did not know who she was or where she was likely to be? And Lucilla very much hoped that he would find her.
This feeling she had being near him meant something, but exactlywhatremained to be seen.
“We must go, Miss Cilla,” Barker insisted, glaring at Mr. Sanderson.
“Save me a dance at your debut ball,” Mr. Sanderson begged. “I’ll be there.”
“I will,” said Cilla, and allowed Barker to hurry her away, satisfied that Mr. Sanderson was not unaffected by…whatever it was.
*
Drake
Drake watched theyoung lady go. He recognized the name, of course. Miss Wintergreen had been Lady Misrule last New Year’s Eve. Not this Miss Wintergreen, though. The one he remembered meeting—the one who had slipped a drug into his drink—was altogether larger than this dainty lady, with her blue,blue eyes and dark ringlets. As far as Drake could remember, Lady Misrule’s hair was not as dark nor were her eyes as blue.
