A sudden ruckus involving a horse cart on the opposite side of the street half a block away incited a confusion of activity around them, but Olivia took little notice. Her body had gone numb. She dug inside her breast pocket for another coin. “Thank you for your time, sir.”
She dropped the crown into the old soldier’s cup. He fished it out and tested it with the few good teeth remaining in his head. She was gone before the coin was out of his mouth.
Heedless of direction, she fled as fast as her legs would carry her and her dress would allow. It was imperative that she move as fast and as far away from that man and that past as possible.
She was aware of how the world must view her, but this was the first time she’d heard the words spoken aloud.
Selfish. Unnatural.
She must be a selfish and unnatural wench to divorce her resurrected war hero of a husband. She must be a selfish and unnatural mother to deny their daughter her father.
Perhaps it was all true, and she was, indeed, selfish and unnatural. Except no one making those assertions had been in her marriage. Only she and Percy had been in their marriage, and only she and Percy knew the truth about it.
Actually, that wasn’t quite true. She was fairly certain Percy didn’t know the truth about their marriage either, as it hadn’t impacted him in the least.
She glanced around, recognized the cross street, and cut a left. Her pace slowed, and her breath caught up with her. This business with Percy wouldn’t leave her be. And they weren’t in the same city. Not even the same country.
She found herself a single street removed from Jiro’s studio and ducked into a deserted alley, only slightly fetid, and stopped. She couldn’t arrive looking harried and devastated. Eyes closed, she called to mind an image that had comforted and calmed her these last six, tumultuous months since she’d heard Percy was alive: a single freestanding column of brilliant white marble rose into the sky, steady and unassailable, dependent on nothing and no one for support.
From the instant she’d decided to petition the House of Lords to set her marriage aside, she’d known this must be her. She would do anything to preserve the integrity of this column. It relied only on itself.
Decently composed, she stepped out of the dank alleyway, dashed up the street, and down another before landing on Jiro’s doorstep. After a quick double-rap on the front door, an aged servant opened it and silently motioned her inside. She paused to remove her sturdy boots before following the servant through to the back of the house. Once seated at the large white studio’s square central table, she slid the day’s drawings out of her case and patiently awaited Jiro’s arrival.
Her gaze rested on the paintings hanging on adjacent walls, their luminous gold-leaf background an exquisite contrast with the stark white of the room. A skylight and a north-facing wall provided the studio with perfect light and illuminated the paintings, even on the grayest of London days.
As the eye proceeded from right to left, it first happened upon a pair of young cranes being tended by their mother. Next came a clump of summer lilies and a bamboo forest in the background inhabited by a pair of aged cranes majestically settled upon a snow-covered pine.
Although the final painting showcased a group of young women engaged in one activity or another, cooking, sewing, gossiping, even reading, Olivia gravitated toward the serene nature scenes and the meticulous technique involved in the piece’s overall portrayal.
The way the colors of the stylized scenes positively vibrated against the gold-leaf paper was unlike anything she’d ever seen. Someday Jiro would teach her this technique perfected by his art masters in Japan, the Kanō school, if she stayed the path. For now, she would humbly accept the privilege of reproducing them on simple white paper with charcoal.
A feeling of guilt and doubt crept in. Her access to this masterpiece was a privilege. Yet when she’d set to work on it in her studio yesterday, her mind had wandered and her focus sharpened on an entirely different image: Lord St. Alban.
The man had invaded her thoughts, her home, and now her school within a matter of days. If she was a paranoid, she would think it part of a nefarious plot. But, of course, it wasn’t. Nefarious plots were best left to the gothic romances that Lucy devoured at an alarming rate.
An agile movement at the door announced Jiro’s arrival. Tall and slender, he cut a handsome figure in the loose-fitting white tunic and trousers he wore in his studio. When he ventured out onto London streets, he exchanged this clothing for the Western-style attire of an English gentleman. Olivia suspected it was a choice designed to help him fade into the background, to observe and not be observed.
His stride energetic and direct, he took his place at the low table across from her. Olivia saw a man entering his prime years. His long fingers reached for her drawings and slid them across the table. He sifted through the pages, preferring complete silence while he sorted her day’s work.
First, he examined the washerwoman, her defiance and vulnerability at odds with one another. Next, he found the old soldier and went motionless, studying and absorbing the old soldier’s battle-hardened, poverty-stricken features. Then he was on to the next sketch.
Except she hadn’t done any other sketches today.
She leaned over to catch a glimpse of what now held Jiro’s rapt attention and nearly tumbled off her seat when she saw the subject.
Lord St. Alban.
She resisted the urge to snatch the paper from Jiro’s hand. It was simply a drawing done in the middle of a sleepless night. That was all. From an entirely artistic point of view, the man had the kind of face that must have inspired the very first silhouette. It was all angles and planes. A study in geometry, really.
She should have read the London Diary to settle last night’s restlessness. Instead, she’d been productive. And what had that gotten her? The portrait of Lord St. Alban now resting in Jiro’s hand.
Jiro met her gaze, a question in his eyes. “This is not the usual sort of man that you sketch.”
Before she could respond, he again bent his head to study Lord St. Alban’s profile. His eyes in constant motion across the sheet, it was as if he was committing it to memory.
Unable to restrain herself any longer, she asked, “Is there something more you wish to know about the man?”
Oh, let his answer be no. Sometimes Jiro wanted more information about a subject, usually related to coloration or the time of day the likeness was taken. If he inquired about the subject’s scent, for example, she could tell him. Cloves. And something else, too. A warm, earthy quality uniquely male, uniquely Lord St. Alban.
She would keep that last part to herself, even in the unlikely event she was asked.
Jiro’s gaze startled up to meet hers, as if he’d forgotten she sat across from him. “How do you English say this?” His eyes drifted shut. “A ghost crossed my path?”
“A ghost walked across your grave?”
He inhaled a long, deep breath and exhaled. “A grave from long ago.”
Chapter 8
Next day
A gentleman doesn’t gift a lady with property, unless she agreed to be his—
Well, she’d disabused him of that particular notion.
But what notion in particular? a tiny voice wouldn’t stop nagging. How had he been about to finish that sentence?
Unless she agreed to be his . . . wife?
Or something else?
Oh, how her heart had raced, how it raced today, faster than her feet as she strode along Curzon toward her destination, Queen Street. With so many parts of their conversation she could dwell on, it was those pesky words that refused to leave her alone. Like bad company, they popped in unexpectedly, vying for her attention with their boorish manners.
She gave her head an imperceptible shake, as if that could rattle them loose
and free her of them. Free her of him. Except she hadn’t freed herself of him at all. She’d done the opposite.
For the hundredth time, she ran through the events of yesterday. She’d happened upon Lord St. Alban crammed into the tiniest desk imaginable for a man his size. They’d begun conversing. Miss Radclyffe needed a school. Olivia needed a powerful man’s name. An idea bloomed. A bargain was struck . . .
A flash of panic streaked through her. It wasn’t too late, no papers were signed. She could call off the deal and allow her family to take care of her for the rest of her life. It was what any woman of her class would do . . .
No. It wouldn’t do for her. She’d shaken his hand on the matter. It was a bargain sealed.
Her pace quickened, her heels a determined click-clack across gray cobblestones, her surroundings familiar—after all, she’d spent nearly her entire life in the West End—but also novel. Now that she might become an owner in this neighborhood, she took in with fresh eyes the busy street ahead, uniform rows of townhouses to either side, Shepherd’s Market one street over to her left. Even though their deal had been struck only yesterday, Lord St. Alban’s solicitors had moved swiftly, informing her first thing this morning of an available property and an arranged viewing.
Anticipation replaced panic. This could be it. This house could be the perfect launching point for her and Lucy to begin a new era of their lives.
But it might not be, fussed a thought the size of a sticky burr. Falling in love with and buying the first house she saw was a bit like falling in love with and marrying the first man she ever met. She’d all but done that with Percy. And that venture hadn’t worked out quite as planned.
A sliver of guilt forced its way in. She didn’t regret Percy. Never. It would be tantamount to regretting Lucy and not under any circumstances could that ever be. What she did regret was something in herself when it had come to Percy. Her eagerness. An eagerness that he be perfect . . . that she be perfect . . . that they be perfect together. A perfect fairy tale come to life was what she’d expected from her future with Percy.
And it hadn’t come to be. Not even close.
It would be best if she lowered her expectations for the first house she viewed. She needed to sample a few others as well. The second, or even third, house might be the better fit.
A gentleman doesn’t gift a lady with property, unless—
Why? Why wouldn’t the silly words go away? Why wouldn’t she let them?
She released a gusty breath. She knew why.
Lord St. Alban had shot an arrow straight to the heart of her insecurities regarding the method she was using to carve out this new life for herself. By involving him in her quest for a townhouse and her independence, she wasn’t really leaving men in the past. In fact, she was certain she’d undermined her vow.
In the moment, she’d seen an opportunity that she must seize. Today, she viewed it in a light more in line with reality: she’d again entangled her life with a man. A man who intrigued her. A man on the hunt for a wife, a proper wife.
She had no interest in opening herself up to all that could follow with an intriguing man on the hunt for a proper wife. Flowers. Family gatherings. Engagements. Marriage banns. Complications.
Yet there was an exception that allowed her to bypass all the usual rules surrounding courtship. She was a scandalous divorcée, after all. So rare was her particular sisterhood that no rules existed.
There could be another arrangement between herself and an intriguing man, one less formal. One that didn’t involve flowers or family gatherings or engagements or marriage banns. One that would remain uncomplicated.
A gentleman doesn’t gift a lady with property, unless she agreed to be his . . . mistress.
Like a siren’s song, those words, the very idea of them, called to her. It would most certainly end with her dashed across the rocks. No dealings with Lord St. Alban would long remain uncomplicated.
Ahead, Queen Street slipped into view, and in a score of steps she was rounding its corner, scanning the row of townhouses until she found the one at the end. Her townhouse, she couldn’t help thinking. It quite banished all thoughts of uncomplicated affaires to the periphery of her mind.
Like its neighbors, the townhouse was built in the plain, but classical, style of the last century. She approached the tidy, unobtrusive front stoop and, instead of taking the steps up to the crimson front door, she ducked her head and made her way down the side steps to the servants’ entrance. The key should be to the right of the glossy black door beneath a flower pot.
She’d agreed upon this arrangement with Lord St. Alban’s solicitors to avoid gossip. If the rags caught wind of his activities on her behalf, complications would follow. All she wanted was a house and a fresh beginning. Not a scandal and a potential forced marriage.
Ha. She wouldn’t be forced into another marriage.
She tilted the flower pot onto its side and palmed the key. As she slipped it inside the lock, she took note of how very still an empty house could be. She’d never experienced a house that didn’t also contain, at least, five other souls. Such was the life of a woman born to an earl and married to the son of a duke. Not a bad life at all, but perhaps an inhibiting one.
As she made her way through the empty kitchen, up the servants’ stairs, and down the long dark corridor toward the foyer, the freedom of a truly and utterly empty house enlivened her more with each successive step. She could do whatever she pleased without a whiff of self-consciousness. On a whim, her feet spun her around, skirts swishing around her ankles as she came to a stop after a single rotation. An approximation of a giggle escaped her.
As an adult, she’d never spun through the halls of her home, rarely even as a child. It was exhilarating. She closed her eyes and did it again and again until she was dizzy with the sensation.
The image of a Flemish painting from the last century came to mind. Whirling Dervishes in Mevlevihane Pera. The smile on her face grew wider and wider with each turn. An ever strengthening light filtered pink through her closed eyelids, and she sensed she must have entered the foyer.
Her eyes popped open, and her stomach gave a lurch. A small cry burst from her throat, and her heart clanged about her chest. Her smile froze in place, a gray shadow of its former self.
A man stood in the shadow of the front door, facing her. In less than the blink of an eye, she knew him.
Lord St. Alban. Here. Watching her.
His arctic blue gaze holding her prisoner, he lifted his hands and began a slow clap, the firm line of his lips at odds with the levity of the gesture.
Flame shot into her cheeks. Feet suddenly turned to clay, she opened her mouth to speak before snapping it shut. She began again, “Lord St. Alban, what a”—Pleasant? No. Unpleasant? That wouldn’t do either—“surprise.”
Not every sentence needed adjectives or adverbs or even verbs.
The lift of a single eyebrow was the dratted man’s only response.
~ ~ ~
Cheeks soft with pink and chest heaving, Lady Olivia’s face looked impossibly open and fresh.
Well, her formerly open face. It was now entirely closed off to him. The hand clapping might have been beyond what was sensible, but he hadn’t been able to contain himself. She’d made a truly spectacular entrance with her arms spread wide and her face tilted to the ceiling. Unbound was the word that came to mind. He’d never seen an English woman so unbound.
His travels had taken him to locales that allowed women certain freedoms of dress and movement, but staid, old England wasn’t one of them, not by any stretch. Yet Lady Olivia defied his notions about who she should be at every turn. Yesterday’s ramble through London only reinforced that idea.
Her graceful throat undulated in a swallowing motion, and her eyes blazed. “Your solicitors informed me that I would h
ave the house to myself,” she said, each word emerging on a note of rising virtuous pique.
“My day’s plans changed, and I was curious,” he said from his place across the room. He’d learned over the past few days that her physical proximity to his person had an inverse relationship with the rational functioning of his brain. Better he stayed over here and shout across the distance, if necessary.
She bit her plump bottom lip between her teeth and released it. “Is it your intention to inspect this house with me?”
“I don’t have anything better lined up for the afternoon.”
Incredulity spread across her face. “Can that be true, Lord St. Alban?”
A swell of pleasure expanded inside him. He couldn’t help it, he liked when she challenged him. “Might you be aware of the previous viscount’s penchant for indiscriminate spending?”
He caught a transient spark of humor in her eyes. “I might have noticed his affinity for bejeweled pinky rings on more than one occasion.”
“Ah, yes, the pinky rings.” He cleared his throat. “In the process of amassing his vast pinky ring collection, the late viscount also acquired a mountain of debt that could be rightly compared to the height and breadth of the Matterhorn. However, this morning I received my first bit of good news regarding the late viscount’s affairs. It seems that the Dowager Viscountess St. Alban, Georgie’s widow, has been running a Devonshire estate at a profit and is content to keep doing so for the remainder of her days. Her words, not mine. You should see her five-year agricultural plan for the property.”
Lady Olivia’s eyes widened, and he knew he’d overstepped the mark and struck an overly familiar tone. “I cannot imagine a scenario where that would be necessary.”
Again, he cleared his throat, if only to mask the groan that wanted out. “All of which is a long way of saying that I have nothing but time for you, Lady Olivia. Into the evening, if need be.”
Tempted by the Viscount Page 9