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Which it very well might be, given the cool reception they’d received in London so far. Few invitations had seen their way to the sisters’ rented Grosvenor Square doorstep since Regine had set up home in London. She suspected curiosity had prompted those half-dozen or so invites. A young, widowed duchess who’d managed to escape le beau monde’s watchful eye was a novelty.
To be fair, however, she must concede it wasn’t the height of the Season.
As she marched along, Regine permitted her mind to wander.
Not so long ago—eight years wasn’t so very long, was it?—she wouldn’t have believed the numerous extraordinary places she’d have visited. And yet—yes, it is true—she’d forfeit every single adventure, every monument, museum, great wonder of nature, and grand marvel of man, to have been permitted to select a different path for her life. The route she’d yearned to take with all of her heart, mind, body, and spirit.
If she’d only had herself to consider.
Two laughing boys—arms wildly waving—darted past, drawing her back to the present and earning them a tolerant smile.
Children. The one thing Heartwaite couldn’t give her. Involuntarily, she pursed her lips against the scrape of disappointment such reflection always produced. She’d known that was the case from the beginning, but that didn’t render the sting any less sharp.
As she passed a coffeehouse, a dapper elderly gentleman and a petite lady of middling years, attired entirely in flamingo pink with copious pink and white feathers adorning her bonnet, exited. Regine couldn’t help but inhale the heady aroma of coffee, escaping the establishment through the open doorway.
At once, the familiar smell transported her to Spain, and the delicious coffee she and Heartwaite had enjoyed there. She preferred hers heavily dosed with milk, while her husband had enjoyed his black with four sugar lumps.
Pausing, she inspected the charming frontage, making a mental note of the coffeehouse’s name: Royale Roast Coffee Shoppe and Café. Perhaps she’d return another day and bring Juliet with her. Once her sister became accustomed to her new spectacles, and to seeing clearly, she’d welcome more outings. Hopefully.
Regine cast one last appreciative glance over the quaint building. With its bright blue shutters and white gingerbread fretwork, it reminded her very much of something from a storybook. Her attention snagged on a man engrossed in a newssheet on the other side of a sparkling, clean window.
No. It cannot be. Her heart stuttered to a halt then resumed beating with the swiftness of a winded Ascot racehorse. Heavens above.
She pressed her fur-lined, ruby kid glove-covered fingertips to her mouth. A half-gasp, half-exclamation of distress lodged in her throat upon recognizing familiar auburn hair with an endearing, unruly mahogany lock flopped over a high brow. His hair had always done that. How many times had she smoothed the silky strands of coppery-brown from that noble forehead?
Head slanted in the manner that always bespoke deep concentration, he casually rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his chin.
I’m not ready.
She’d never be ready. Not if another eighty years came and went.
Feet rooted to the wet pavement, she gawped, forcing people to skirt around her.
James Brentwood. Good Lord.
Even after all of this time, he had her at sixes and sevens.
She hadn’t seen him in over eight years, but she would’ve recognized him anywhere. He looked much the same. Same straight blade of a nose, square chin, lips perfectly fashioned by God, and eyelids lowered over what she knew to be vibrant blue-green eyes. Intelligent eyes. Kind eyes. Eyes, which had once looked upon her with devotion and love.
Such tender, reverent love.
Followed by hurt. Confusion. Betrayal. And finally—the most wounding of all—disgust and antipathy. Even after all of this time, Regine’s lungs and stomach cramped with remembered pain, as if it had only been yesterday that she’d watched him stalk away from her.
I’m sorry. So, very, very sorry.
Swallowing reflexively, she lowered her hand from her mouth as she caught sight of herself reflected in the window. Blue eyes round and stunned and face pale as milk.
And, devil a bit, if her smart, port-colored half-boots, didn’t carry her inside of their own volition. Even as her common sense and self-preservation ordered her to walk on.
To forget James Brentwood. To protect her fragile heart.
Piffle and twaddle. Regine wasn’t a shrinking violet. Never had been. A swift Hello and, How are you? ought to suffice. After all, to ignore him would be the height of poor manners. Hadn’t they been neighbors for over fifteen years? They’d been much more, as well.
He probably doesn’t even know I’ve returned to London.
He would soon enough.
Regine slipped inside the cozy eatery, her attention riveted on James, and filled her lungs with the welcoming aromas. Robust coffee beans, heady tea, sweet chocolate, baking spices, and other delicious smells met her nostrils. Her tummy gurgled, reminding her she’d forgone her midday meal, and her light breakfast had consisted of coffee and toast.
