Page 24 of The Luckiest Lady in London

Indeed, why not say yes to Lord Wrenworth?

When he had dropped out of sight for so many days after his initial proposition, she had grown increasingly certain, a sensation like a hole in her stomach, that she had woefully misread the situation. That what she had thought were but opening volleys actually constituted the entire transaction: offer tendered, offer refused, offer nullified.

That what she had thought to be real and sustained interest on his part was but a soap bubble under the sun, gone with the next blink of the eye.

Lady Balfour hadn’t needed to encourage her to pretend as if she belonged at Lady Tremaine’s ball. Had any servant tried to stop her from getting in, she would have gladly handed over her mother’s pearl brooch as a bribe—so badly did she need to see him.

It was to her credit that she had kept her clothes on—there was something about the man, about the way he looked at her, that made her want to disrobe on the spot. Not languidly, deliberately, but as if her corset and petticoats were on fire and must be yanked off without a second’s delay.

And when he had asked whether she had come to say yes, when he had renewed his offer and her hope, beneath her skirts her legs had trembled.

He would never know how close she had come to giving him the answer he wanted.

Yet for all her shaking relief that he was still interested—still committed to this lunacy of his—she had turned around and left.

Some part of her had recognized that the game was still very much on, and had not wanted to concede it. But how much longer could she play the game, when she had no idea how, or whether it was even possible, to win? Was she just playing to keep from losing, then? And what exactly did losing entail, in this particular instance?

Thunder like a field gun being fired right next to her ear made her jump. Rain unleashed as if a dam had burst in the clouds. She realized that what she had thought of as table legs scraping the floor overhead had actually been the low rumble of thunder, which had been going on for a good while.

She would have to remain in the bookshop until the storm eased, not a terrible hardship. And since she was—or at least represented—a loyal customer of long standing, Mr. Richards, the owner, would not complain about her prolonged browsing.

“I’m looking for the young lady who came to pick up Lady Balfour’s order.”

Louisa blinked. Lord Tenwhestle—what was he doing here?

“My lord Tenwhestle.” She came out from the stacks. “I’m here.”

“Of course you are, my dear cousin.” He nodded at Mr. Richards, came toward her, and instead of walking her to the door, led her deeper into the shop.

When they were out of Mr. Richards’s hearing range, Lord Tenwhestle asked, with a mischievous smile on his face, “Have you ever read Pride and Prejudice, Miss Cantwell?”

His question baffled her. “Yes, years ago.”

Mrs. Cantwell had been disappointed that no modern-day Mr. Darcy or Mr. Bingley had ever whisked one of her beautiful elder daughters into a grand manor. Louisa found it strange that her mother had nursed such hopes at all. Even Miss Austen herself had not found a real-life Mr. Darcy. Why should he materialize almost a century later, after his creator had turned into bone and dust?

“Do you remember the part where Mrs. Bennet dispatches her eldest daughter to Netherfield Park on horseback, knowing it would rain and force Jane to stay overnight?”

Louisa bit the inside of her cheek; she saw where this was going.

“My mother-in-law has contrived something similar,” continued Lord Tenwhestle, confirming Louisa’s suspicions. “She sent me to my club on foot, even though it was certain to pour, with the instruction that I must ensure that you arrived home warm and dry in case of rain.”

What would Lady Balfour think if she only knew that while she planned her innocent tricks, Louisa was playing far more reckless games? “And since it is impossible to locate a hackney in this weather…”

“Precisely.” Lord Tenwhestle winked conspiratorially. “When I groaned about my problem, a very fine gentleman stepped forward to put his carriage at my disposal.”

One with more than one folly on his estate? Louisa almost asked.

They were speaking in low voices, but now she dropped hers to a whisper. “Do you not think, sir, that perhaps Lady Balfour is overly optimistic about my prospects? I’d hate for her to be disappointed, but if the gentleman is who I think it is, I have no reason to believe any offers of marriage will be forthcoming from that quarter.”

Lord Tenwhestle gave her a gentle pat on the elbow. “You needn’t worry, dear cousin. We are all grown-ups here. Besides, I have known the gentleman in question for years, and perfect though he may be, he is also quite wily at dodging scheming mamas and equally scheming misses. I will allow that once could be a coincidence—the time he came to dinner at my house because Mr. Pitt happened to be our missing fourteenth guest—but I do not think Lord Wrenworth accidentally offers his help twice to the same kin of the same debutante.”

No, not accidentally. But whatever Lord Wrenworth did, it was for his own purpose: to have her standing naked on that belvedere at the break of dawn, while he had his way with her.

She felt a sharp pinch in her chest. Would this scenario only ever exist in her imagination?

“If you say so, sir,” she said weakly.

A pair of footmen waited outside the bookshop, holding umbrellas. Lord Wrenworth stood by his sleek, splendid town coach under one such umbrella, looking as if he had stepped out from a fairy tale, the beautiful trickster prince—a fairy tale that must be bowdlerized before it could be safely read to children.