The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(134)

“Regrettably,” she said, “I do.”



* * *





It took a great deal to shake Felix Hartford’s good-humored equanimity. He prided himself on his ability to see the absurd in every situation. No matter if it hurt him. No matter if it broke his heart.

But today was no ordinary day.

He’d been up since before dawn broke, attending to yet another remnant of his late father’s distasteful legacy. An unknown legacy as far as society was aware. Hartford wished he might have been spared the knowledge of it as well.

There had been no chance of that.

His own mother had unloaded the burden onto his shoulders, confessing every sordid detail from her deathbed nine years ago. Hartford had been only twenty at the time, little equipped to face the reality his mother’s dying words had wrought.

Lack of readiness hadn’t alleviated his responsibilities.

He’d begun to view his father’s secret life as the many-headed Hydra of mythology. Nothing was ever fully resolved. Just when he’d lopped off one of the sea serpent’s poisonous heads, two more grew in its place. He was tired of it and, after this morning’s events, quite tempted to wash his hands of the business once and for all.

And now this.

Her.

Lady Anne Deveril was the last person he wanted to see at the moment. And, rather paradoxically, the person his heart most yearned to speak with.

But not about his family’s past.

And not about her family’s either. It was a past her mother seemed to cling to with increasing determination. Anne clung to it, too, in her way; a willing victim to Lady Arundell’s obsession with the dead.

Per usual, she was clad in lusterless black bombazine. An aggravating sight, though her mourning gown was one of impeccable cut. It molded to her delicate frame; the tightly fitted bodice, with its long row of dainty jet buttons, emphasizing her narrow waist and the lush curve of her magnificent bosom. Full skirts swelled over her hips in a voluminous sweep of fabric that made the most sensuous sound, rustling over her layers of petticoats and crinoline, when she moved.

He felt it as much as heard it, tickling his senses and thrumming in his blood.

Thank heaven she’d agreed to sit.

A seated Lady Anne was far easier to deal with than an Anne in motion. And she was almost always in motion, whether striding about in her mother’s wake or galloping down Rotten Row in company with her bluestocking friends. Mounted Amazons, all—and just as formidable.

He chose his next words with care. “Whatever it is you think you know—”

“What I know,” she said in the lemon-tart tones of a British schoolmarm, “is that you never met a frivolity you didn’t like. These columns you write are another of your childish diversions, clearly. I’m not here to judge.”

“No?”

“I’m here to make use of you.” She tapped one kid-gloved finger on the cover of the printed journal on her lap. “All you need do is say something of a spiritualist nature about this house of Blunt’s in Yorkshire.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“And what am I to say?” He paused, adding, “If I am this Drinkwater fellow you claim.”

She was, unsurprisingly, prepared with an answer. “There’s no need to reinvent the wheel,” she said. “Blunt’s estate is already rumored to be haunted. You need merely expound on the fact with an emphasis on immediacy. You might say ‘the veil between worlds is closing soon’ and that ‘all practitioners of a serious bent should journey North to take advantage of it.’ I’ll do the rest.”

His mouth quirked briefly. She was so confident in her plan. So all-fire determined. It was one of the things he’d used to admire most about her, this unwavering confidence she had in herself. “Have it all planned out, do you?”

“Naturally.” She moved to rise. “All that’s required is for you to do your part. I’ll do the rest.”

“Manage your mother?” His amusement at the situation flickered out as quickly as it had arisen, extinguished by half a decade of bitterness. “Forgive me if I take leave to doubt your capabilities on that score.”

She fixed him with a withering look as she stood, brown eyes sparkling with flecks of gold, like strong spirits ignited by fire.

It brought to mind the game of snapdragon they’d played six and a half years ago, here in this very house, at a Christmas party hosted by his grandfather before he’d left on his 1856 expedition to India. Brandy-soaked raisins and nuts had been set aflame on a silver plate. The young people in attendance had taken turns snatching the sweet treats from the fire.

Anne had been fearless, of course. Heedless of being burned.

And she had been burned.

Hartford had caught hold of her scorched fingers a split second after the flames had licked them. He’d drawn her away from the game, taking her down to the kitchens so that Cook could soothe Anne’s burns with cold butter from the larder.

It was as they were leaving the kitchens that it had happened.

The two of them, alone in the servants’ hallway, the light from a gas wall sconce shimmering in the threads of Anne’s hair. Like spun gold it had been, swept back in a glittering net. He’d felt the silken strands with his fingers as he’d tipped her face to kiss her under the mistletoe. Her voluptuous mouth had trembled beneath his. He’d trembled, too.