Why would he?
He was sleeping soundly in his bed in St James’s Square at this very moment.
Contradictory feelings flooded her, so that she couldn’t interpret them. Relief. Disappointment… longing. Always, always this infernal longing…
It was because she’d seen him at Almack’s, of course. It must have stimulated the memory of the last time they’d been together.
The last time she’d seen him.
Sleeping peacefully in bed.
Her heart clenched at the memory.
That must be it, of course. There was a logical reason for everything.
She pressed a hand to her forehead. “Pull yourself together, Lola.”
This meant that her headstand experiment must have been successful. She was eager to try writing again to see whether it translated to her work. Indeed, she had a busy day ahead.
She rose, washed her face, grabbed her pencil, journal, and a book. Her stomach growled.
But first, breakfast.
She didn’t bother with slippers; she loved the feel of bare feet on cool wood. Nor did she reach for her shawl or morning gown. One need not bother with those unnecessary things, for they were forever in the way. She kept losing them, and besides, she was all alone in the house, after all, and she refused to dress to impress the servants.
She trudged down the stairs in her nightgown and open hair, searching for the breakfast room.
She wrinkled her nose. There was a decidedly delicious smell of coffee and fresh bread coming from beyond yonder door.
She opened it.
And froze.
Sitting there at the breakfast table, impeccably dressed and calmly eating his eggs and reading a newspaper was, of course, Sebastian.
He glanced up briefly. “Good morning.”
Viola stood in the doorway as if lightning had shot through her system. Her book and journal fell out of her hands and came crashing to the floor.
She opened and closed her mouth several times, but only a croak came out. She cleared her throat and tried a third time.
“You are here.”
“Naturally.” He raised his eyebrow. Those eyebrows! Sharp and black like apostrophes, framing those wonderful fey eyes. She could wax poetic about them. Shedidwax poetic aboutthem. In fact, she’d written not one, but half a dozen love sonnets about his eyes alone. Amongst other features of his body. But of course, he didn’t know that, and she prayed he never would.
She should, heaven help her, collect her scattered wits and finally snap back to reason! She was behaving like a love-struck girl fresh out of the schoolroom, and that wouldn’t do at all.
She bent down to pick up the book and the journal.
He watched her, lifting a hand and gesturing towards the chair across from him.
Thoroughly put out, Viola dropped into it.
“Why are you here?” she blurted out.
“I thought we’d discussed that last night. Because this is my house and I live here.”
She huffed. She opened her mouth and snapped it shut again. Ah yes. They did have this discussion. What happened now?
