Page 79 of The Luckiest Lady in London

It was only when she looked up from the notebooks that she saw the tulips on the bookshelves. Golden tulips, freshly come to bloom.

I am hopelessly in love with you.

She was out the door the next moment, as if a ghost had breathed on her neck.

* * *

December was upon them all of a sudden.

Mrs. Pratt had barrels of dried currants and candied peels at the ready, to undertake the huge quantity of Christmas cakes her stillroom manufactured and dispensed each yuletide to all tenants on behalf of the marquessate. Mr. Sturgess oversaw the production of ginger brandy and lemon gin. M. Boulanger muttered of not only chestnut-stuffed geese, but of capons, herons, and pheasants in the tradition of his native Poitou; a roasted suckling pig with pineapples, as was served in the Sandwich Islands; or perhaps even a boar’s head in the manner of Oxford.

Louisa carried with her a large notebook filled with lists and determinedly saw to one item after another.

One morning, she and Mrs. Pratt, who employed an even more impressive notebook, sat down with the guest list for the Christmas house party and discussed the needs of each person on the list in order to begin the assignment of rooms.

Most of the guests had stayed at Huntington before, and Mrs. Pratt already had dossiers on their habits and requirements. The notable exception was Louisa’s family.

Louisa turned to the page in her own notebook on which she’d jotted down those particulars that needed to be mentioned. But before she could start, Mrs. Pratt said, “Here are my notes on the Cantwell ladies. The lamp wicks in Mrs. Cantwell’s room must be trimmed each evening, before she retires, as she needs a light on the entire night—either that, or she should be supplied with a long-burning taper. Miss Cecilia cannot sleep on a feather mattress, as it makes her sneeze impossibly. Being a late riser and generally irritable in the morning, Miss Julia would prefer to have her room not face east. Miss Matilda needs to room with one of her sisters in case she has a sudden attack, but not with Miss Julia, as the latter has never had the responsibility of handling a seizure of Miss Matilda’s by herself.”

Astonished, Louisa looked down at the identical items on her list. “Did…”

She meant to ask whether she had somehow spoken to Mrs. Pratt and then entirely forgotten about it. Mrs. Pratt answered, “Yes, ma’am, his lordship did give me these instructions.”

His visit to her family had lasted little more than a week. How did he know so much?

“Was that all the instruction his lordship gave?”

“No, ma’am. I also have here that Miss Cantwell is allergic to all shellfish, that Mrs. Cantwell will not eat anything orange in color, that Miss Cecilia and Miss Julia should preferably not be seated close to each other, as they have a tendency to quarrel.”

Louisa fidgeted in her seat.

“Is there anything you’d like to add, ma’am?” asked Mrs. Pratt.

Louisa looked down at her list. “Just that Miss Julia must have porridge for breakfast every morning. And that my mother does not mind her food being orange if the hue comes from saffron. She quite admires saffron and the distinction it confers.”

When Mrs. Pratt had left, Louisa found herself climbing the stairs up to the schoolroom again. It was a clear day, and sunlight streamed in from the south-facing windows. The room very nearly sparkled.

And there again, on the bookshelf, a bouquet of golden tulips, as fresh and lovely as a breath of spring.

She realized, only after she’d been at it for a while, that she was standing before the bookshelf, stroking the cool, smooth petals.

* * *

Felix found her in the gallery, before a portrait of his mother. She cast one swift look in his direction, as his footsteps echoed in the long, cavernous space, but offered no greeting when he came to stand next to her.

She had become thinner, paler, her cheekbones prominent, her eyes almost too large. The only dimension on her person that hadn’t shrunk, at least not while she was fully clothed, was that of her bosom, as full and buoyant as ever, cantilevered by those bust improvers for which he harbored such a great fondness.

He felt a completely inappropriate desire to smile, accompanied by a sharp pinch in his chest.

“I understand you have been making guest room assignments with Mrs. Pratt,” he said. “In case you haven’t done so, I’d like Lady Tremaine placed on the top floor, away from the other guests. I’d promised her a house full of handsome men. Should she choose to take a lover, a room wedged in between the Denbighs and the Hollisters would not offer enough privacy.”

She made no response. His heart felt as if it had been made into a pincushion.

“I can speak to Mrs. Pratt directly, if you do not wish to concern yourself with the matter.”

“Do you—” She stopped, as if shocked that she was speaking to him. “Do you count yourself among the handsome men on offer?”

“No,” he said. “I only want you.”