Darcy’s face flushed, and her heart trembled the instant her gaze collided with the Earl of Raine’s. Her sisters skipped ahead along the path in Hyde Park, wholly enchanted by the sweep of green, the glitter of carriages, and the elegant parade of ladies and gentlemen in their finery. Darcy prayed he would canter past. He had not contrived to call since settling them in Russell Square four days ago.
She had not returned to Aphrodite either, though a letter had arrived from Madame Rebecca with a neat contract and the promise she would always have a protective presence in the room when she painted. Banknotes of one hundred pounds had also been enclosed, as the earl had bought the painting she did of him. Darcy had slipped the sum into her valise, taken it out three separate times to count, and each time replaced it with a throb of disbelief.
One hundred pounds was a fortune, and it made everything all the more real. She would use her talent to secure a future for herself and her sisters. She could do it… no, shewould.She tore her gaze from the earl, forcing herself to look away—trying not to dwell on the sharp jolt in her chest the moment her eyes foundhim. Given the earl would not publicly associate with them, Darcy had expected him to pass them by. Her heart pinched, but she reminded herself not to expect anything of him. He had already shown great kindness in providing a roof; he was not obliged to offer his company or to bolster their standing within society.
To her shock, the earl drew his stallion to a measured halt at the edge of the promenade, the horse’s breath steaming faintly in the late afternoon cool. With the unstudied grace of a man entirely at home in a saddle, he swung down. A groom in discreet livery hurried forward to take the reins; the earl’s gloved hand brushed the animal’s neck in a brief, soothing stroke. He looked impossibly correct in a dark coat and buff leather, sun finding the blue in his eyes and turning it keen.
Darcy dropped into a curtsy. He lowered his head in return, the barest inclination.
Around them, the promenade shifted. A lady in dove-gray paused to glance back; a pair of young bucks slowed their strut to whisper and grin. Gossip and speculation traveled quickly in London.
“Mrs. Whitley,” he said. “Good afternoon.”
“My lord.” Dracy’s voice was steady, though her pulse was not, and her face heated.
“You are blushing.”
Startled, she met his eyes. Darcy had not expected him to be so pointed. “The sun,” she said primly.
The corner of his mouth quirked. “The sky is overcast, Mrs. Whitley .”
“Then it must be the exercise,” Darcy returned, cool as she could make it. “Or perhaps your talent for observation. It’s studied focus does warm a lady, my lord.”
She could hardly admit she was recalling the glide of his fingers on his manhood and the cut of his chest, so she met hisgaze and softly added, “Thank you for acknowledging me, my lord. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
Darcy knew enough of thetonto understand that a public word from a man of his consequence might open doors, if one knew where to knock.
“It was an impulse,” he returned, voice cool. “I have yet to understand why I indulged it. Please do not overthink it.”
Darcy’s chest squeezed. “I am still happy you did, my lord.”
His jaw hardened, and his gaze took in Emelia, Jane, and Sarah, who had stopped a little way on and now hovered, uncertain, watching. “You and your sisters are well?”
“We are,” she replied. “The townhouse is very comfortable, and the staff is attentive and capable.”
“I am glad to hear it.” He spoke without warmth or rudeness, simply with cool civility polished to a sheen. “I have been engaged every hour, or I should have called sooner.”
“Of course. We had no expectations of your visit.”
There was a part of her that reeled at how cold he held himself, so unlike the man she had painted, who had throbbed with rawness and carnal vitality. It was as if that heat had been drawn off, and only a powerful, intimidating shadow remained. Darcy wondered how many different skins the Earl of Raine wore.
A phaeton rattled by with bright wheels and brighter laughter. On Rotten Row beyond the trees, riders passed in a shining file, bits ringing, hooves striking the tan with that rhythmic, pleasant sound that always made Darcy think of far fields and open sky. A faint breeze lifted the ribbons at her bonnet and carried the scent of crushed grass and horse.
Her sisters drew near, nerves plain in their eyes. They dipped curtsies and offered greetings to their brother—how strange it felt to name him so.
He inclined his head with that cool, indifferent politeness. “Miss Emelia. Miss Jane. Miss Sarah. I trust you are enjoying the park.”
“It is very pleasant out, my lord,” Jane said, gripping the edges of her gown to stifle her apparent nervousness.
Darcy’s heart pinched for her sisters; their need for his regard and acceptance was painfully evident. She understood it. Their father had been gone these many years, and no gentleman’s steadiness had shaped their days. This man was their blood, whether or not he chose to bestow the fond sincerity of an elder brother. There was a time when they played in the meadows, climbing trees without care. In those days, they dreamed of what it might feel like to have a brother—never once daring to imagine he already existed somewhere in the world.
“We were terribly bored in the house,” Sarah blurted, as if she sensed the tension needling his composed façade. “So we came to the park.”
One of his brows rose, and his cursory glance skipped over her face. “Bored?”
“Yes, we do not know anyone in town,” Sarah rushed on, “and we spend our time sitting by the window and watching people stroll by. We make up stories about who they are or where they might be coming but…but it is no longer fun. We were anxious to come outside, but Darcy said it was fine. We apologize if it was wrong for us to venture?—”
“We are not a dirty secret to be hidden away,” Darcy said, her voice sharper than she intended. “Do not think it, Sarah. Not ever.”
