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With that, Lily turned. Or at least, she prayed it resembled a turn and not a headlong flight. She kept her shoulders square, though inside her heart fractured like fragile porcelain. Her pride was her last shield against the pain.

Would time on the Continent ease this tempest in her soul? Or would she mourn, always, the marriage she had hoped for—until Mr. Ridley had reawakened that impossible dream, only to dash it in a breath?

She exited without another glance, closing the door on Mr. Ridley and on the past. Her footsteps quickened toward the sanctuary of her room.

She and Nancy would need to pack. There was a journey to prepare for. She must leave as soon as arrangements could be made, if only to spare her mother further sorrow and to give them all space to begin again.

Chapter

Seven

“Confront them with annihilation, and they will then survive; plunge them into a deadly situation, and they will then live. When people fall into danger, they are then able to strive for victory.”

Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)

Brendan stood in the street, his head reeling. He suspected that he might have handled the situation with Miss Abbott in a less than exemplary manner. Raising his hand, he rubbed his temple once again, attempting to alleviate the tension that had built and built over the past few days.

The cobblestones beneath his feet seemed unsteady, the familiar din of London—hoofbeats, hawkers, the creak of carriage wheels—fading beneath the weight of his own thoughts. He had barely had time to be relieved that he was not being arrested before the next crisis had presented itself. The earl was livid about Miss Abbott, presumably because his countess would be distraught at the news regarding her cousin.

The young lady’s act had been so generous, so unprecedented, he simply could not believe it had been altruistic. Unfortunately, revealing his sentiments had brought her to tears, and Brendan was fighting off gut-wrenching shame for mishandling the discussion. Even if she had plotted to trap him, she was just a child. She barely looked old enough to be out of the schoolroom, and perhaps she had harbored grand ideas of marrying a baron.

His head pounded, a stray thought bouncing around his skull. Miss Abbott must be older than she looked, for he seemed to recollect that he had been introduced to her the prior year. In her lacy dress and girlish ringlets, he could have sworn she was not old enough to be having a Season. But if his memory served correctly, the young lady would be on at least her second Season, which simply was not possible. That would make her almost of an age with Lady Saunton, yet she barely came up to his chest. He could not even ascertain if she had curves beneath the flouncy gowns she seemed to favor wearing.

Perhaps Lady Moreland had brought Miss Abbott out early?

He squinted against the bright sunlight, vision blurred by the persistent pain behind his eyes. A horse clopped somewhere behind him, and the scent of dust and hoof oil lingered in the air. He had sent the carriage away, requesting it return after an hour, for he had expected to be negotiating a marriage contract with Lord Moreland.

Now, his options were to walk home or …

Or to visit Lady Slight until my carriage returns.

Brendan did not think it a wise idea, especially not within sight of the Abbotts’ townhouse, but his composure had grown ragged over the past few days, and the pull toward the widow proved difficult to resist.

Before he had formed a proper decision, his boots were already crossing the street and his hand was lifting the brass ring to knock. Matters felt incomplete with Harriet, and though he could not yet name the nature of what lay unresolved between them, he longed to bring it to a close.

The door opened, revealing the butler, whose eyes flared ever so slightly in surprise. Brendan knew it was improper to call on a widow in broad daylight, yet decorum felt like a fragile concept beneath the weight of his current unrest.

“Lady Slight,” he said, his voice low and resolute.

The butler hesitated but acquiesced, opening the door wider to allow him entry. Likely the servant thought it wiser to admit a gentleman quickly than to have him loiter on the front step for all the neighborhood to observe. Once inside, the older man led him toward the painted room. The painted drawing room was Lady Slight’s favorite, most likely because it displayed her to full advantage, a striking woman positioned within a striking room.

That observation sparked an unwelcome prickle beneath his collar, reminding him that he had been contemplating ending their arrangement. The viscountess was far too devoted to her own appearance, often arranging herself in postures so artful they seemed borrowed from a portrait. One could easily imagine her practicing such gestures before the gilded mirror that adorned her dressing room wall.

The butler knocked, then entered the drawing room to announce Brendan’s arrival. He followed, pausing just inside the threshold to absorb the scene. Harriet sat poised in silk, a cascade of auburn hair spilling over one shoulder, her figure framed by the harmonious tones of the painted walls. To her left, a large oil of Venus cavorted with cherubs in soft, flesh-toned opulence—a tableau of mythic indulgence that echoed, with unsubtle accuracy, the generous display of the painting’s mistress.

“Brendan! It is so lovely to see you. I was not sure I would again.”

He arched an eyebrow in question.

“I heard you might be arrested,” she added lightly.

Brendan frowned. “That little on-dit spread rather quickly?”

Harriet waved a graceful hand, her bracelet catching the light. “I heard about it from the oddest little chit who came to call on me. Can you believe she demanded I reveal your whereabouts? She even threatened me!”

His headache vanished in an instant. Brendan took an involuntary step forward.

“Whom do you mean?”