down in the armchair nearest Jess.
“It used to be. It could be again, though I suspect my nephew would deny the claim.”
Heat warmed Jess’s cheeks and she had to stop herself from nervously tapping her pen against the desk. Lady Stamford had at least two nephews. Perhaps more. Though she hadn’t mentioned any others, there was no reason to assume she’d detailed her entire family tree. It was presumptuous to assume she referred to the same dour viscount Jess had been paid to kiss.
Lord Grimsby was there in her memory, too vivid and quickly brought to mind. His voice, his scent, the shape of his mouth—the more she tried not to ponder each detail, the more fixed they became in her mind’s eye. Jess remembered him far too often, and the man invaded her dreams with impunity.
“We must prepare to depart for Hartwell, Jessamin. I’ll speak to Dawes about what to pack, but could you oversee the preparations? And we should craft a letter to my nephew. He won’t welcome a house party, but that’s what he must have. We can invite Matilda and her granddaughter, perhaps Dr. Seagraves from the village, Julia and Marcus. And Lucius will no doubt wish for Mr. Wellesley.”
Augusta continued to tick off names of guests, most of whom Jess had never heard her mention, to be invited and tasks to be completed before their departure. Jess stalled on one name. Lucius. At the gallery, a woman had called Lord Grimsby by that name.
That moment—the disdain in the woman’s voice, the weight and warmth of Lord Grimsby’s hand on her arm—came back as if she stood again in the overheated gallery. Jess bit her lip to stop it trembling and clasped her hands to stop them shaking. She’d never expected to see him again, and now she was to visit his home. In just a few days, she might lift her gaze and look into his eyes, stand close enough to him to see the flecks of silver in the crescent of blue. Excitement and fear tangled in a breath-stealing mass that seemed to center in her chest, and she pressed the flat of her palm against her breastbone in a futile attempt to ease the pressure.
I can’t forget . His three words never left her, as if the heated breath of his whisper had seared them into her skin. Yet she’d spent hours tormenting herself with theories about his meaning. Was it a curse? An accusation? A plea?
That day in the shop, he’d come and offered her charity, yet the night before he’d accused her of accosting him. She’d undoubtedly scandalized him. But in the gallery, he’d held on to her as if she were his lifeline, his glacial blue eyes burning her with the intensity of his gaze. The man was inscrutable, confusing, and took up altogether too much space in her head.
“Lord Grimsby.” Jess wasn’t certain she said his name aloud until she noticed Lady Stamford had stopped speaking and sat watching her with interest.
“Yes, my nephew is at Hartwell. Maxim and Isobel’s eldest son died two years ago, and Lucius is now my brother’s heir.” Augusta answered the questions Jess hadn’t asked.
And, always sharp-eyed, Lady Stamford noticed the trembling Jess attempted to hide. Reaching out, the countess took Jess’s hands in her own. “All will be well, my dear. Please don’t worry.”
“Yes.”
It would have to be. Lady Stamford was her employer and she insisted on going to Hartwell. Lord Grim would simply have to accept Jess’s presence, though she vowed to herself she’d steer clear of him.
For the next hour they made plans, assembled lists, and addressed several invitations to those the countess wished to have at Hartwell’s house party. The letter she dictated to Lord Grimsby was brief and to the point.
L.—
I will arrive at Hartwell within the week, and Miss Sedgwick will follow shortly thereafter. Prepare Hartwell for a house party. I have invited Lady Turbridge, Marcus and Julia, Robert, and a few others.
I pray Maxim is well.
We shall be with you soon.
—A.
“We must leave
“It used to be. It could be again, though I suspect my nephew would deny the claim.”
Heat warmed Jess’s cheeks and she had to stop herself from nervously tapping her pen against the desk. Lady Stamford had at least two nephews. Perhaps more. Though she hadn’t mentioned any others, there was no reason to assume she’d detailed her entire family tree. It was presumptuous to assume she referred to the same dour viscount Jess had been paid to kiss.
Lord Grimsby was there in her memory, too vivid and quickly brought to mind. His voice, his scent, the shape of his mouth—the more she tried not to ponder each detail, the more fixed they became in her mind’s eye. Jess remembered him far too often, and the man invaded her dreams with impunity.
“We must prepare to depart for Hartwell, Jessamin. I’ll speak to Dawes about what to pack, but could you oversee the preparations? And we should craft a letter to my nephew. He won’t welcome a house party, but that’s what he must have. We can invite Matilda and her granddaughter, perhaps Dr. Seagraves from the village, Julia and Marcus. And Lucius will no doubt wish for Mr. Wellesley.”
Augusta continued to tick off names of guests, most of whom Jess had never heard her mention, to be invited and tasks to be completed before their departure. Jess stalled on one name. Lucius. At the gallery, a woman had called Lord Grimsby by that name.
That moment—the disdain in the woman’s voice, the weight and warmth of Lord Grimsby’s hand on her arm—came back as if she stood again in the overheated gallery. Jess bit her lip to stop it trembling and clasped her hands to stop them shaking. She’d never expected to see him again, and now she was to visit his home. In just a few days, she might lift her gaze and look into his eyes, stand close enough to him to see the flecks of silver in the crescent of blue. Excitement and fear tangled in a breath-stealing mass that seemed to center in her chest, and she pressed the flat of her palm against her breastbone in a futile attempt to ease the pressure.
I can’t forget . His three words never left her, as if the heated breath of his whisper had seared them into her skin. Yet she’d spent hours tormenting herself with theories about his meaning. Was it a curse? An accusation? A plea?
That day in the shop, he’d come and offered her charity, yet the night before he’d accused her of accosting him. She’d undoubtedly scandalized him. But in the gallery, he’d held on to her as if she were his lifeline, his glacial blue eyes burning her with the intensity of his gaze. The man was inscrutable, confusing, and took up altogether too much space in her head.
“Lord Grimsby.” Jess wasn’t certain she said his name aloud until she noticed Lady Stamford had stopped speaking and sat watching her with interest.
“Yes, my nephew is at Hartwell. Maxim and Isobel’s eldest son died two years ago, and Lucius is now my brother’s heir.” Augusta answered the questions Jess hadn’t asked.
And, always sharp-eyed, Lady Stamford noticed the trembling Jess attempted to hide. Reaching out, the countess took Jess’s hands in her own. “All will be well, my dear. Please don’t worry.”
“Yes.”
It would have to be. Lady Stamford was her employer and she insisted on going to Hartwell. Lord Grim would simply have to accept Jess’s presence, though she vowed to herself she’d steer clear of him.
For the next hour they made plans, assembled lists, and addressed several invitations to those the countess wished to have at Hartwell’s house party. The letter she dictated to Lord Grimsby was brief and to the point.
L.—
I will arrive at Hartwell within the week, and Miss Sedgwick will follow shortly thereafter. Prepare Hartwell for a house party. I have invited Lady Turbridge, Marcus and Julia, Robert, and a few others.
I pray Maxim is well.
We shall be with you soon.
—A.
“We must leave
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