were definitely like witchcraft. His sketches had belied the truth of her vision of witches as wizened women surrounding a cauldron, chanting spells. In his pictures, many witches were young and beautiful. And they did not need spells to change the weather, make crops die, or cause people to grow sick and weak.
She didn’t consciously do things like starting fires. But the only logical explanation was that she was a witch.
How could she marry Lord Sutcliffe? She knew he had told Father he intended to offer for her hand. Her father had been stunned. But Sutcliffe had told Father he loved her. And that had convinced her father to agree and let the wretch court her.
The liar.
And she had one more damning secret. Every morning for the last few days, she had been sick. She had missed her menstrual courses.
That had nothing to do with magical powers or with her illness.
She was pregnant.
Octavia stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her heart felt as though an efficient maid was wringing it dry. “Since you are carrying his child, ” she whispered, “you have to say yes.”
With a sharp crack, the glass of the mirror split in half.
Swans paddled on the water, and one honked and hissed as she and Eliza hurried through St. James Park. In the nighttime, the park was notorious for liaisons between gentlemen—something ladies were not supposed to know about. But this was a sunny afternoon and, Octavia reflected, the park was quiet.
“You are going to hunt Lord Sutcliffe down in the park?” Eliza asked.
“Not in the park, ninny. Across the street, on Birdcage Walk. The Royal Society has its offices there.”
“It does?” Eliza puffed behind her as Octavia strode swiftly to the elegant building. She had no idea why she was almost running. She was about to accept an offer of marriage from a man and lie to him while doing it. Yet she wanted to get it over with, while she had the courage.
Eliza stared up at the soaring marble columns. A servant stood by the double doors, which were glossy black and festooned with brass. A plaque that read T HE R OYAL S OCIETY FOR THE I NVESTIGATION OF M YSTERIOUS P HENOMENA was fastened to the wall beside the doors.
It took only minutes before a servant returned and brought her and Eliza into an office. Sutcliffe was there, and the servant announced them, to him and Mr. Sebastien De Wynter. Before the men had finished their bows, Octavia blurted, “I came to say ‘yes.’ ”
“Excellent.” Sutcliffe jerked his head toward the door, then looked pointedly at De Wynter.
“Ah,” murmured handsome, blond Mr. De Wynter. His brows rose, then a spine-melting smile curved his lips. He turned that smile on Eliza. Her friend gaped, dumbstruck. “Miss Compton, would you care to join me in one of the parlors? Lady and Lord Brookshire are here today, and always take their tea now. I thought you might enjoy a refreshment.”
He offered his elbow. Dazzled, Eliza slipped her hand in the crook.
The moment she was alone with Sutcliffe, he let out a sharp breath. “Thank God,” he muttered. “Those last few moments were agony. Ever since you breezed into the room, smelling of gardens and sunshine, I’ve wanted Lady O.”
His voice was raw, like that of a man truly in severe pain. She blinked, and in that heartbeat, he came to her, took hold of her around the waist, and hoisted her on the desk. In an instant, he bunched muslin and petticoats at her waist. She wasn’t wearing drawers, which were considered fast.
He was fighting to undo his trousers. “I have never wanted a woman like I want you. It is like you have a magical power over me—”
“Surely not,” she said quickly, but his attention was on the falls of his dark trousers. He pushed them down, shoved his linens down his hips. She gasped at the sight of his erection—it was thick and more rigid than she’d ever seen it, rising along his flat, hard stomach. It seemed so scandalous to see his bare bottom and his naked
She didn’t consciously do things like starting fires. But the only logical explanation was that she was a witch.
How could she marry Lord Sutcliffe? She knew he had told Father he intended to offer for her hand. Her father had been stunned. But Sutcliffe had told Father he loved her. And that had convinced her father to agree and let the wretch court her.
The liar.
And she had one more damning secret. Every morning for the last few days, she had been sick. She had missed her menstrual courses.
That had nothing to do with magical powers or with her illness.
She was pregnant.
Octavia stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her heart felt as though an efficient maid was wringing it dry. “Since you are carrying his child, ” she whispered, “you have to say yes.”
With a sharp crack, the glass of the mirror split in half.
Swans paddled on the water, and one honked and hissed as she and Eliza hurried through St. James Park. In the nighttime, the park was notorious for liaisons between gentlemen—something ladies were not supposed to know about. But this was a sunny afternoon and, Octavia reflected, the park was quiet.
“You are going to hunt Lord Sutcliffe down in the park?” Eliza asked.
“Not in the park, ninny. Across the street, on Birdcage Walk. The Royal Society has its offices there.”
“It does?” Eliza puffed behind her as Octavia strode swiftly to the elegant building. She had no idea why she was almost running. She was about to accept an offer of marriage from a man and lie to him while doing it. Yet she wanted to get it over with, while she had the courage.
Eliza stared up at the soaring marble columns. A servant stood by the double doors, which were glossy black and festooned with brass. A plaque that read T HE R OYAL S OCIETY FOR THE I NVESTIGATION OF M YSTERIOUS P HENOMENA was fastened to the wall beside the doors.
It took only minutes before a servant returned and brought her and Eliza into an office. Sutcliffe was there, and the servant announced them, to him and Mr. Sebastien De Wynter. Before the men had finished their bows, Octavia blurted, “I came to say ‘yes.’ ”
“Excellent.” Sutcliffe jerked his head toward the door, then looked pointedly at De Wynter.
“Ah,” murmured handsome, blond Mr. De Wynter. His brows rose, then a spine-melting smile curved his lips. He turned that smile on Eliza. Her friend gaped, dumbstruck. “Miss Compton, would you care to join me in one of the parlors? Lady and Lord Brookshire are here today, and always take their tea now. I thought you might enjoy a refreshment.”
He offered his elbow. Dazzled, Eliza slipped her hand in the crook.
The moment she was alone with Sutcliffe, he let out a sharp breath. “Thank God,” he muttered. “Those last few moments were agony. Ever since you breezed into the room, smelling of gardens and sunshine, I’ve wanted Lady O.”
His voice was raw, like that of a man truly in severe pain. She blinked, and in that heartbeat, he came to her, took hold of her around the waist, and hoisted her on the desk. In an instant, he bunched muslin and petticoats at her waist. She wasn’t wearing drawers, which were considered fast.
He was fighting to undo his trousers. “I have never wanted a woman like I want you. It is like you have a magical power over me—”
“Surely not,” she said quickly, but his attention was on the falls of his dark trousers. He pushed them down, shoved his linens down his hips. She gasped at the sight of his erection—it was thick and more rigid than she’d ever seen it, rising along his flat, hard stomach. It seemed so scandalous to see his bare bottom and his naked
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