Page 13 of The Luckiest Lady in London

At night she lay awake, planning for a bleak future. Mrs. Cantwell held on fiercely to her status as a lady. The idea of her daughters working for remuneration was anathema to her: She was a lady only if her daughters, too, were ladies.

But Mrs. Cantwell could afford to make a fuss about being a lady; she was the one with the annuity that would last for as long as she lived. Her daughters had no such luxuries.

If Louisa were to fail in London, she must immediately find work. Mrs. Cantwell could tell everyone that she had gone to live with a distant cousin, if that would help her feel better. But if Louisa were not home, who would keep an eye on the budget? Cecilia and Julia both enjoyed buying things as much as Mrs. Cantwell did. Would the money Louisa would be able to set aside from working make up for the difference?

After Mrs. Cantwell passed away, everyone would need to work, of course, even Julia, who would hate to either instruct small children or fetch tea for old ladies. But Julia could fend for herself. Who would look after Matilda? Matilda needed someone to be with her at all times, to make sure she didn’t fall down staircases or drown in a bathtub.

If Frederica stayed with Matilda, they would still require a place to live and enough money for essentials. Would Louisa, Cecilia, and Julia, working at positions that didn’t pay very much, be able to support them?

And if not, what would happen to Matilda?

They had spoken of this only once, she and Matilda, not long after Matilda realized what would happen upon Mrs. Cantwell’s death. Louisa had told Matilda then that she would never let Matilda be taken to the poorhouse.

I will take care of you, do you understand? Now don’t worry anymore. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.

Would that turn out to be an empty promise, after all?

Chapter 4

Felix left London for a week. The day of his return, he went to the Reading Room of the British Museum. After two hours with stacks of books before him, he stepped out from underneath the Reading Room’s famous blue-and-gold dome to find himself a cup of tea.

Sitting in a corner of the nondescript refreshment room, a plate of wafer-thin cucumber sandwiches before her, was none other than Miss Louisa Cantwell, in the same green velvet walking dress from the time they had run into each other at the bookshop.

He blinked, not sure he hadn’t somehow conjured her. He’d gone to Huntington, his country seat, because he had not wanted to waste the night skies of an unusually sunny week in the middle of a very wet summer. But one could argue that he had left to prove to himself that he would be quite fine were he to stay away from her.

He was fine, busying himself with his astronomical observations. He thought of her a great deal, but that was only to be expected, given that he had plots in place concerning her. Besides, those thoughts were quite pleasurable and gave him not a moment of distress or angst.

Ignoring her sandwiches, Miss Cantwell played with her napkin—something she would never do at a proper dining table—rolling it into a tight tube, then shaking it loose and folding it into a smaller and smaller triangle. He found her prettier like this, distracted, unsmiling, and without the air of utter agreeableness that she wore like a layer of theatrical makeup.

The next moment, something in her aspect changed. Her fingers, which had treated the napkin as only a napkin, now lingered over the linen, caressing it, then seizing a handful of the cloth as if in agitation—as if the fabric were that of the sheet upon which she awaited her lover.

He felt his own breath quickening. A little disconcerting to realize that she could arouse him even when she was not reacting to his presence.

She glanced up. The expression on her face when she saw him—as if he were a swaying cobra and she a hapless would-be victim, desperate to flee but mesmerized against her will. He wished he could distill and bottle the sensation. One drop of such an essence would turn a eunuch as virile as Hercules himself.

He approached her table. “Miss Cantwell, an unexpected…pleasure.”

The way he lingered over the syllables of that last word—he might as well seduce virgins from good families twice a week.

He was saved from ridiculousness only by her even more disproportionate response. Her pupils dilated. A pulse throbbed visibly at the base of her throat. And she flushed everywhere—or at least all the way to her earlobes.

She cleared her throat. “Lord Wrenworth, we thought you still at your estate.”

“I cannot long forsake the delights of London during the Season. May I join you?” He sat down before she could answer one way or the other and gave his order to the server who had sprung forward to inquire after his needs. “What brought you here to the Reading Room?”

He hadn’t pegged her as the bookish sort. But this particular refreshment room served only to those holding readers’ tickets—the public refreshment room was by the statue of Mercury, in the Gallery of Antiquities.

“Oh, idle curiosity.”

Too bad books and manuscripts could not be taken out of the Reading Room—that would have made it easier for him to discover what she had come for.

She was no longer looking at him—or rather, no longer looking him in the eye. But he could feel her gaze elsewhere on his person, a heat that lingered for a moment at the top of his collar, then journeyed across the width of one shoulder and down the length of that arm, intensifying every inch farther south.

It would be alarming, the degree to which she stirred and tantalized him, fully dressed and sitting a respectable distance away, if he didn’t feel himself completely in control of the situation.

Still, he brought up a sobering subject—sobering for her, at least. “And how goes your quest for a bridegroom, Miss Cantwell?”

Her resentment returned. And he, budding pervert that he was, found her sullen, suspicious glare terribly stimulating—the seemingly even-keeled lady in fact possessed quite a temper.