storming away from
Revell Court
in a noisy cavalcade.
She whirled to face the room. What time is it? she thought frantically. If the debauchees of the Grotto were already up and about, it must already be midmorning! The mantel clock affirmed her realization.
Eleven o’clock
! she read with a groan. Now, she, Caro, and the servants would be forced to get a late start on the road. Once more, they would have to travel the last leg of their journey in the dark, but at least the way home was more familiar than the hills of
Somerset.
She hurried over to the chest of drawers, where she poured water from the pitcher into the porcelain washbowl, thoughts of Lucien continuously plaguing her. Splashing the fresh, bracingly cold water on her skin, she resolved to forget him. He was tricky, dangerous, and bad. She could not begin to figure him out, but he was hardly the lackadaisical diplomat she had been led to expect. He was as fierce as a tiger, as quick as an adder, and as wily as a fox, and when he wanted to, she thought as a few droplets of water rolled sensuously down her throat into the valley between her breasts, he could be totally, irresistibly charming.
She shivered and kept moving, toweling her face and chest dry. She slipped into the fresh chemise and clean stockings she had stashed in her satchel. Rolling the thin, white stockings up and fastening them to her garters, she ignored the little thrilling flashes of memory of his hands skimming so expertly up her thighs. Such thoughts! She did her best to keep her mind fixed on poor little Harry, who was waiting for her to come home.
Rising briskly to don her dark blue carriage gown once more, she prayed that she would never cross paths with Lucien in Society—especially not this Season, for by then, she would have turned twenty-two, which was practically at a woman’s last prayer. That meant it was time to choose once and for all which of her longtime suitors she would accept for her husband.
Blast! she thought suddenly, pausing with a scowl. She had forgotten all about her suitors last night when Lucien had turned her own pointed question upon her, asking who loved her. Unfortunately, she knew why she had forgotten they existed in that moment—because they paled into invisibility next to him. She batted away this vexing realization like a badminton shuttlecock. “Draco” was beyond redemption. If any woman ever agreed to marry him,
Alice felt sorry for her.
All three of her suitors were agreeable, sincere young gentlemen of good family and fine prospects; all had courted her chivalrously “by the book” for the past four Seasons since her debut. Roger was clever; Tom was brave; Freddie was amusing. Only, in her heart of hearts,
Alice wanted a man who was clever, brave, and amusing all in one person, and so much more. Bless them, they had been so patient with her, waiting for so long for her to make up her mind, for all the good it had done them. But her tepid reaction to her suitors was not the only problem.
Larger still loomed the fact that she could not possibly leave Harry with Caro acting such a thoughtless and irresponsible mother. She could never simply abandon her nephew to the care of servants, no matter how good and capable Peg and the others were. A person needed family around them to grow properly—her own experience had shown her that. If Caro did not start acting like a mother to her son,
Alice was never going to be able to leave
Glenwood
Park
and marry. She would end up on the shelf, never having a child of her own to love. With a frustrated sigh, she plunked down on the stool before the mirror, pinning her hair up in a sleek topknot with a few curls dusting her neck.
Just then, a knock sounded on the door. She glanced toward the door in the reflection. “Come in!”
At her call, the door opened and a plump, cheerful maid carried in her breakfast tray. Removing the silver lid,
Alice discovered an assortment of mouth-watering pastries and toast
Revell Court
in a noisy cavalcade.
She whirled to face the room. What time is it? she thought frantically. If the debauchees of the Grotto were already up and about, it must already be midmorning! The mantel clock affirmed her realization.
Eleven o’clock
! she read with a groan. Now, she, Caro, and the servants would be forced to get a late start on the road. Once more, they would have to travel the last leg of their journey in the dark, but at least the way home was more familiar than the hills of
Somerset.
She hurried over to the chest of drawers, where she poured water from the pitcher into the porcelain washbowl, thoughts of Lucien continuously plaguing her. Splashing the fresh, bracingly cold water on her skin, she resolved to forget him. He was tricky, dangerous, and bad. She could not begin to figure him out, but he was hardly the lackadaisical diplomat she had been led to expect. He was as fierce as a tiger, as quick as an adder, and as wily as a fox, and when he wanted to, she thought as a few droplets of water rolled sensuously down her throat into the valley between her breasts, he could be totally, irresistibly charming.
She shivered and kept moving, toweling her face and chest dry. She slipped into the fresh chemise and clean stockings she had stashed in her satchel. Rolling the thin, white stockings up and fastening them to her garters, she ignored the little thrilling flashes of memory of his hands skimming so expertly up her thighs. Such thoughts! She did her best to keep her mind fixed on poor little Harry, who was waiting for her to come home.
Rising briskly to don her dark blue carriage gown once more, she prayed that she would never cross paths with Lucien in Society—especially not this Season, for by then, she would have turned twenty-two, which was practically at a woman’s last prayer. That meant it was time to choose once and for all which of her longtime suitors she would accept for her husband.
Blast! she thought suddenly, pausing with a scowl. She had forgotten all about her suitors last night when Lucien had turned her own pointed question upon her, asking who loved her. Unfortunately, she knew why she had forgotten they existed in that moment—because they paled into invisibility next to him. She batted away this vexing realization like a badminton shuttlecock. “Draco” was beyond redemption. If any woman ever agreed to marry him,
Alice felt sorry for her.
All three of her suitors were agreeable, sincere young gentlemen of good family and fine prospects; all had courted her chivalrously “by the book” for the past four Seasons since her debut. Roger was clever; Tom was brave; Freddie was amusing. Only, in her heart of hearts,
Alice wanted a man who was clever, brave, and amusing all in one person, and so much more. Bless them, they had been so patient with her, waiting for so long for her to make up her mind, for all the good it had done them. But her tepid reaction to her suitors was not the only problem.
Larger still loomed the fact that she could not possibly leave Harry with Caro acting such a thoughtless and irresponsible mother. She could never simply abandon her nephew to the care of servants, no matter how good and capable Peg and the others were. A person needed family around them to grow properly—her own experience had shown her that. If Caro did not start acting like a mother to her son,
Alice was never going to be able to leave
Glenwood
Park
and marry. She would end up on the shelf, never having a child of her own to love. With a frustrated sigh, she plunked down on the stool before the mirror, pinning her hair up in a sleek topknot with a few curls dusting her neck.
Just then, a knock sounded on the door. She glanced toward the door in the reflection. “Come in!”
At her call, the door opened and a plump, cheerful maid carried in her breakfast tray. Removing the silver lid,
Alice discovered an assortment of mouth-watering pastries and toast
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