calling it?” Larena’s lips curved upward, lifting a small freckle at the corner of her mouth.
“Yes, and that is all that it is.” Dominique raised a stern brow at her chambermaid, but her thoughts quickly turned to the feel ofthe admiral’s arms around her. That had been all she had thought about during her long, sleepless night. She had closed her eyes only for a second, not wanting to witness the candlestick bashing his head, when suddenly she’d found herself locked in his embrace—a warm, strong embrace that for a brief moment made her feel safe, secure, and cared for. A feeling she’d not enjoyed for a very long time.
A gentleman approached, lifted his top hat at the ladies, and allowed his gaze to scour over Dominique as he passed. She recognized the look, the same hunger she’d seen in the admiral’s eyes—or was it? The admiral’s gaze had held something deeper, and the warm sensation it produced in Dominique frightened her. She must avoid him; she must do what she came to do and leave as soon as possible; and she should definitely not go to a dance with the man. But what choice did she have? if she didn’t go, he would be at the ball with the key to his study in his pocket, and she would spend another night alone in his home, banging her head against the oak barricade. Since her attempt to pummel him unconscious hadn’t worked, she saw no other option than to feign an affection for him that would bring her close enough to somehow remove the key from his person. And what better way to accomplish that than a dance?
Larena said something, but Dominique couldn’t make it out amidst the cacophony of sounds clamoring in the streets. Well past eleven o’clock, the city seemed to instantly burst with life. Bells of street peddlers rang through the streets, echoing off the brick walls of the exquisite shops lining the avenue: jewelers, tailors, candle makers, booksellers, tea dealers, watchmakers, and purveyors of every imaginable luxury that London society could afford. A German band began to play inside a tavern, horses whinnied, children laughed, and the constant grinding of carriage wheels over the cobblestones only added to the orchestra of madness.
“There’s Grafton House, miss.” Larena pointed to a small store several yards ahead and across the street. A wooden sign hanging from an iron post projecting from the front read G RAFTON H OUSE D RAPERS .
Dominique nodded as the rich aroma of roasting coffee filled her nose like sweet nectar, and she glanced back over her shoulder at a quaint café.
“A coffeehouse. They are quite popular now,” Larena said. “Would you care for some?”
“Nay, but it does smell delicious.” No sooner had she said the words than the stench of rot and sewage ripped the succulent aroma from her nose. Coughing, Dominique turned to see a woman emptying a chamber pot from her second-story window into the alleyway below. It splattered onto the street, sending a spray of sludge into the air. Turning her gaze back onto the main street, she pressed forward.
Brave flickers of sunlight broke through the fog, showering the scene with sparkling highlights and brightening Dominque’s spirits along with them. Gentlemen decked in tailored coats and breeches, with flowing silk cravats bunched about their necks and top hats perched on their heads, strolled about with canes in hand as if they owned the world, perusing the females as they passed. Ladies flounced by them in promenade gowns, fluttering fans and parasols through the air—though why they would need either on a day like this, Dominique could not fathom. Yes, this was the season in London about which her mother had always spoken. The time when all the nobility flocked to the city from their country estates to see and be seen.
A tall gentlemen, impeccably dressed, nodded with an approving smile as he passed by on Dominique’s left. Another one, across the street, held a monocle to his eye and studied her as if
“Yes, and that is all that it is.” Dominique raised a stern brow at her chambermaid, but her thoughts quickly turned to the feel ofthe admiral’s arms around her. That had been all she had thought about during her long, sleepless night. She had closed her eyes only for a second, not wanting to witness the candlestick bashing his head, when suddenly she’d found herself locked in his embrace—a warm, strong embrace that for a brief moment made her feel safe, secure, and cared for. A feeling she’d not enjoyed for a very long time.
A gentleman approached, lifted his top hat at the ladies, and allowed his gaze to scour over Dominique as he passed. She recognized the look, the same hunger she’d seen in the admiral’s eyes—or was it? The admiral’s gaze had held something deeper, and the warm sensation it produced in Dominique frightened her. She must avoid him; she must do what she came to do and leave as soon as possible; and she should definitely not go to a dance with the man. But what choice did she have? if she didn’t go, he would be at the ball with the key to his study in his pocket, and she would spend another night alone in his home, banging her head against the oak barricade. Since her attempt to pummel him unconscious hadn’t worked, she saw no other option than to feign an affection for him that would bring her close enough to somehow remove the key from his person. And what better way to accomplish that than a dance?
Larena said something, but Dominique couldn’t make it out amidst the cacophony of sounds clamoring in the streets. Well past eleven o’clock, the city seemed to instantly burst with life. Bells of street peddlers rang through the streets, echoing off the brick walls of the exquisite shops lining the avenue: jewelers, tailors, candle makers, booksellers, tea dealers, watchmakers, and purveyors of every imaginable luxury that London society could afford. A German band began to play inside a tavern, horses whinnied, children laughed, and the constant grinding of carriage wheels over the cobblestones only added to the orchestra of madness.
“There’s Grafton House, miss.” Larena pointed to a small store several yards ahead and across the street. A wooden sign hanging from an iron post projecting from the front read G RAFTON H OUSE D RAPERS .
Dominique nodded as the rich aroma of roasting coffee filled her nose like sweet nectar, and she glanced back over her shoulder at a quaint café.
“A coffeehouse. They are quite popular now,” Larena said. “Would you care for some?”
“Nay, but it does smell delicious.” No sooner had she said the words than the stench of rot and sewage ripped the succulent aroma from her nose. Coughing, Dominique turned to see a woman emptying a chamber pot from her second-story window into the alleyway below. It splattered onto the street, sending a spray of sludge into the air. Turning her gaze back onto the main street, she pressed forward.
Brave flickers of sunlight broke through the fog, showering the scene with sparkling highlights and brightening Dominque’s spirits along with them. Gentlemen decked in tailored coats and breeches, with flowing silk cravats bunched about their necks and top hats perched on their heads, strolled about with canes in hand as if they owned the world, perusing the females as they passed. Ladies flounced by them in promenade gowns, fluttering fans and parasols through the air—though why they would need either on a day like this, Dominique could not fathom. Yes, this was the season in London about which her mother had always spoken. The time when all the nobility flocked to the city from their country estates to see and be seen.
A tall gentlemen, impeccably dressed, nodded with an approving smile as he passed by on Dominique’s left. Another one, across the street, held a monocle to his eye and studied her as if
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