Chapter 2 #3
When Brendan stirred again, it was to the unmistakable sounds of Lady Harriet Slight returning home in full voice.
Her bright instructions to the servants floated upward through the house.
Still bleary, Brendan blinked and rubbed his eyes, groaning as he sat up and felt the stiff protest of his shoulders.
A clock chimed in the hallway below, and he tried to count the hour, uncertain whether it was four or five.
Either would mean it was time he took his leave.
As he rose, Harriet swept into the drawing room in a flourish of silk and perfume, pausing in surprise when she saw him.
For a moment, they both stared.
Lady Slight, widow of a viscount whose life had ended not long after their marriage, was every bit as striking as ever.
Her flaming red hair was arranged in careful ringlets that framed her perfect face.
Though her gown was cut in the latest daring fashion, it was her animated presence that drew the eye more than anything else.
“Brendan! I completely forgot we had plans,” she said with a musical laugh.
“After the coronation, I was spirited off to a soirée. Or three, if I am truthful. It was a whirl of introductions and sparkling conversation with all the best of society. I do hope you found a way to keep busy while I was gone?”
Brendan suppressed the flicker of annoyance rising in his chest. Though Harriet was often amusing company, her unreliability wore thinner with each encounter. He could now understand why Perry had left the brief association behind with little ceremony.
Perhaps our time is drawing to a close.
The familiar weight of ennui settled once again across Brendan’s shoulders, a heavy cloak dragging at his limbs. He resisted the urge to sit back down on the settee and drift off once more. But he remembered he had to see the baron this morning.
It was time to leave.
Finding a new companion would be an inconvenience at present, and maintaining his current understanding with Lady Harriet was easier for him if he wished to avoid nights alone at his club. The alternative might offer peace and solitude, but it lacked the warmth and comfort of a feminine companion.
“Of course.” He stepped forward and pressed a courteous kiss to her cheek, breathing in the gentle scent of rose water lingering on her skin. No man could deny that Harriet was a charming woman—vivacious, confident, with a sparkle in her gaze and graceful curves.
Stepping back, he offered a smile. “Did you enjoy your evening?”
“What a day of marvels!” she declared with a merry laugh. “We shall never again see a coronation so grand. They say it surpassed the one held for that little French tyrant himself. Did you know a tailor went all the way to Paris to study the emperor’s robe?”
“I heard a veritable fortune was spent on the festivities,” Brendan said dryly. If there was sarcasm in his tone, it was lost on her.
“It was glorious!” she continued, her cheeks pink with either excitement or, perhaps, a touch too much champagne.
Brendan chuckled. “I am glad you enjoyed yourself. It sounds like quite the night.”
“Night, darling? I returned at six o’clock in the morning! Proof, if ever there was, of a successful outing.”
Brendan blinked. “Six o’clock? I must go!
” He snatched his gloves from the side table and muttered a quiet curse.
It was not that he feared the baron would cut him off—forfend such a public embarrassment!
—but Brendan had no desire to worsen their already strained relationship without a clever strategy to send the baron packing back to Somerset.
He made for the door, ignoring Harriet’s slightly offended expression as he passed.
There were matters more pressing than morning pleasantries. He needed to get home.
Lily opened her eyes, momentarily disoriented.
The familiar hush of early morning filled the drawing room, where the delicate tick of the longcase clock was the only sound beyond her own breathing.
Her book had slipped from her hand and now lay open-faced upon the Aubusson carpet, the corner of one page bent as if in protest. She must have dozed off while reading, lulled by the flickering candlelight hours ago.
Sitting upright, she pushed a loose curl behind her ear and blinked away the remnants of sleep. Pale light filtered through the sheer mullioned drapes, just enough to illuminate the high plaster ceiling and gilded frames along the far wall.
The first fragile threads of dawn stretched like silk across the rooftops of Mayfair, turning chimney pots and brick facades into softened silhouettes.
A carriage rattled to a stop across the street, its wheels a muted clatter on the cobbles, and drew her attention.
Her breath caught slightly as she recognized the familiar crest upon the lacquered panel. It was Lady Slight’s barouche.
Several heartbeats passed. Then the widow herself emerged, walking with her customary grace despite the hour.
A heavy velvet cape was drawn over her shimmering evening gown, its hem brushing the paving stones as she crossed to her front door.
Her stride was measured, though her return at such a time hinted at impropriety.
Lily frowned, a furrow forming between her brows. Had Lady Slight truly left Mr. Ridley waiting through the night? The notion struck her as inconsiderate. Even in an arrangement of questionable propriety, such neglect showed a lack of regard.
She stretched, arms above her head and back arching slightly in a movement that would have earned a stern rebuke from Mama.
As she did so, she noted the silence of the household.
If she had spent the night in the drawing room, then her parents and brother Aidan must still be at their various engagements.
Mama would never have allowed her to remain here, alone and uncovered, if she had returned.
Bending to retrieve her book, Lily’s thoughts were disrupted by sudden motion beyond the glass.
The door across the street burst open, swinging wide with uncharacteristic force, and Mr. Ridley strode out in haste.
His coat flared behind him, and though distance obscured his expression, his urgency was unmistakable.
Had he, like her, fallen asleep and only just awakened? His manner suggested more than mild alarm. He was not merely late. He seemed almost agitated.
She watched as he disappeared into the lavender-gray shadows at the end of the lane. Hackneys would be difficult to find at this hour. Lily doubted the gentry of Mayfair were stirring yet, and certainly not their drivers.
Clutching the book to her chest, she turned toward the door. It was high time she sought her bed, though she suspected she would not sleep. The image of Mr. Ridley’s retreating figure lingered in her mind like the closing line of an unfinished story.