Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Here, kitty,” Octavia cooed, holding out a small piece of dried fish. “Come try this lovely treat!”
Archimedes’ ears flattened against his head. He hissed and pressed closer against Laurence’s chest.
Laurence Whitby, Duke of Ashcroft, sat in his drawing room with Archimedes curled in his lap, only half-listening to the conversation between Hugo and Octavia.
His mind kept drifting back to the previous evening.
Joan Sinclair in his arms, the scent of her hair, the way she had melted against him for one perfect moment before pulling away.
Hugo laughed from where he lounged in a chair by the fire. “Octavia, don’t you know by now that cat hates everyone except Laurence?”
Everyone except Joan, Laurence thought. Archimedes had taken to Joan Sinclair immediately, abandoning his master to curl up in her lap at every opportunity.
Octavia pouted prettily. “But I’m so good with animals! They always like me. I need to try harder.”
She reached toward Archimedes again, and the cat’s hiss intensified into a growl.
“I think that’s a no,” Hugo said, still grinning.
Octavia withdrew her hand with a sigh just as Jenkins appeared in the doorway.
“Your Grace, a letter has arrived for you. From Miss Sinclair.”
Laurence felt his pulse quicken. He took the sealed letter and broke the wax, his improved vision allowing him to read the neat, careful handwriting.
She had a cold? And she couldn’t come?
He read the brief message three times, his jaw clenching with each pass.
“Joan?” Hugo repeated, sitting up with interest. “Isn’t that the lady from the ball last night? The stunning one in the red dress?”
He grinned knowingly. “No wonder you practically dragged her away from me. She’s a special lady, isn’t she?”
Laurence didn’t respond. His mind was racing. He had seen Joan just last evening. She had been perfectly healthy, flushed from dancing, yes, but showing no signs of illness.
This is an excuse, he thought grimly. She’s avoiding me.
The realization stung more than he wanted to admit.
He had been pretending his vision hadn’t improved, had been maintaining the charade of needing her assistance, simply because he wanted more time with her.
Wanted more excuses to be close to her, to hear her voice, to watch the way she became animated when discussing the children’s progress.
And now she was avoiding him with a transparent lie about being ill.
But what if it’s not a lie? a quieter voice whispered. What if she truly has taken ill?
Hugo stood and moved toward the sideboard. “Either of you want a drink? It’s barely past noon, but I feel like it.”
“No, thank you,” Octavia murmured.
Laurence shook his head, still staring at the letter.
Hugo poured himself a glass of brandy and stepped out into the corridor, leaving Laurence and Octavia alone.
In the silence, Octavia moved closer to where Laurence sat. “You look worried. The lady must be a very close friend.” She paused, then added carefully, “I didn’t realize, or I wouldn’t have suggested Hugo dance with her.”
“It’s not a problem,” Laurence said absently, his thoughts still far away.
“She’s not from here, is she?” Octavia continued. “She might have a gentleman she’s engaged to back in her hometown. London, perhaps?”
Laurence’s head snapped up. “What?”
Octavia’s eyes widened slightly at his sharp tone. “I only meant—I was simply thinking that she and her sister are clearly from London originally. Quality, well-bred ladies. It would make sense if she had formed an attachment there before circumstances brought her here.”
The thought of Joan belonging to someone else—of her returning to London to marry some faceless gentleman—made Laurence’s chest tighten with something uncomfortably close to rage.
“I apologize,” Octavia said quickly. “I spoke out of turn. I simply care about you, and I don’t want to see you hurt.”
She moved closer still, until she stood directly in front of him. “I worry about you, Laurence. You’ve been so alone for so long.”
She reached out toward his face, her fingers trembling slightly.
Laurence caught her wrist before she could touch him. “Be decent, Octavia.”
“What if I told you,” she whispered, “that I fancy you?”
Laurence released her wrist and stood, dislodging Archimedes, who yowled in protest. “You’re Hugo’s sister. My friend’s sister. That would be odd.”
“There are already rumors we’re engaged,” Octavia pressed. “Everyone thinks we’ll marry eventually. I mean after you,” she paused to pick her words. “After you got hurt fighting for me. Nothing would be odd about it.”
“I don’t see you that way,” Laurence said firmly. “I will never see you that way. Don’t bring this up again.”
Octavia’s eyes filled with tears. She stood frozen for a moment, then turned and fled from the room, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs.
She collided with Hugo in the doorway. He caught her shoulders, concern immediate on his face as he saw her tears.
“Octavia? What—”
But she wrenched away from him and ran down the corridor, her footsteps fading into the distance.
Hugo sighed heavily and stepped back into the drawing room, closing the door behind him. “She confessed to you, didn’t she?”
“I’m sorry,” Laurence said. “I didn’t realize—I never meant to lead her on—”
“You didn’t.” Hugo waved a hand dismissively.
“Octavia has harbored feelings for you since the incident. I’ve tried to discourage her, told her you didn’t return her regard, but she’s stubborn.
” He took a long drink of his brandy. “I’m actually glad you finally addressed it directly.
Better she hear it from you than continue nurturing false hope. ”
He paused, then added with a slight smile, “Though I must ask—do you have to make every woman you reject cry? It’s becoming something of a pattern.”
Laurence didn’t smile.
Why doesn’t Joan chase me? he wondered with sudden, fierce curiosity. Every other woman I’ve encountered has either pursued me for my title or fled from my scars. But Joan simply… exists in my life.
He had felt her tremble in his arms last night. He heard her breath catch when he pulled her close.
I like her, Laurence realized with sudden, startling clarity. When did this happen? When did she stop being merely a convenient assistant and become… essential?
“Laurence?” Hugo’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You’re doing that thing again. That brooding, intense stare that makes people nervous.”
“I’m going to see her.”
“The lady with the cold?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re planning to do what, exactly? Demand she stop being ill? That seems counterproductive.”
Laurence stood and began moving toward the door with purpose. “I’m going to make a bold move. Tell her how I feel.”
Hugo’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “You? Make a bold romantic gesture? Ashcroft, you once told a woman who declared her love for you that she had ‘abysmal taste in men.’ You made her cry so hard she had to be escorted from the room by her mother.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“She wasn’t Joan.”
Hugo’s expression softened into something like understanding. “Ah. So it’s like that, is it?”
“Yes.” Laurence felt a strange sense of lightness at the admission. “It’s exactly like that.”
“Well then,” Hugo said, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Good luck, my friend. Although I have a feeling you might be the one who gets rejected this time.”
The kitchen at Fairfax Manor had been transformed into a scene of cheerful chaos. Flour dusted every surface, including several small noses. The scent of baking cookies filled the air.
Joan stood at the large wooden table, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, helping Percival carefully measure out sugar while Victoria worked with Imogen to roll dough into perfect circles.
Edmund was in charge of placing the shaped cookies onto baking sheets, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration.
It had been four days since Joan had been to the hall and she’d decided to invite the children to her home to bake.
“Miss Sinclair,” Percival said suddenly, looking up at her with concern. “Are you certain you’re well enough for this? Your cold—”
Joan felt her cheeks warm at the lie she’d told. “I’m feeling much better, thank you—”
“She’s completely recovered!” Victoria interrupted smoothly, shooting Joan a knowing look. “The fresh air and rest did wonders. She’s fit as a fiddle now.”
The children visibly relaxed, and Joan silently thanked her sister for the rescue.
“I’m so glad,” Imogen said earnestly. “We missed you terribly.”
They worked with the children chattering amongst themselves as they shaped dough and licked sweet traces from their fingers.
“Miss Sinclair?” Imogen’s voice was thoughtful. “At the ball, you looked so elegant and beautiful. Like a real London lady.”
“She is a real London lady,” Edmund pointed out.
“I know, but I mean—” Imogen struggled to articulate her thought. “You looked like you belonged at grand balls and parties. Have you been to many? What’s the Season like?”
Joan exchanged a glance with Victoria, who was trying to suppress a smile.
“Well,” Joan said carefully, “the Season is… quite elaborate. There are balls nearly every night during the height of it. Garden parties, musicales, theatrical performances. Ladies wear their finest gowns, and gentlemen in their best evening clothes. It’s all very grand and formal.”
“It sounds like a fairy tale!” Imogen breathed.
Victoria laughed. “It can feel that way at first. When I made my debut, I was so overwhelmed by all the attention and excitement. There were so many rules to remember—how to curtsy properly, which gentlemen it was appropriate to dance with, how to make polite conversation without saying anything too intelligent or too dull.”
“That sounds exhausting,” Percival observed.