Chapter Eight
Edmund woke to the maddening sensation of sunlight flooding his face and the even more annoying sound of his manservant whistling a bright and jaunty tune.
Part of Pontifort’s efforts in preparing Edmund for his new circumstances was ensuring proper behaviors and manners were reinforced when he could not be there. For that, he insisted Edmund hire a manservant of exceptional experience and competency.
Though Brimley was a valet on paper, he was so much more than that. He was a critical buffer between Edmund’s private world, which still included as great many remaining shortcomings, and the world of greater society which would judge him harshly for any perceived offenses.
Brimley proved himself to be an exceptionally snooty fellow.
Tall and lean with wiry strength, a butler’s profile, and an indeterminate middle age, the manservant was invaluable.
His grandfather had been valet to a marquess and his father was valet to a duke.
As an earl, Edmund was not exactly the employer poor Brimley had aspired to, but the manservant spotted the issues right away and decided his expertise would be desperately needed.
Edmund suspected the man thrived on challenges and impossible situations.
And when he first came to work for him, Edmund was certainly impossible.
He wished he’d started a count of how many times Brimley had rolled his eyes in dramatic despair of ever seeing his master reach an acceptable level of social polish.
The valet had said more than once it was fortunate Edmund was handsome and charming in the way that made ladies melt or he’d be under a lot more scrutiny for his endless failings.
Such bold and brazen criticisms would easily be grounds for dismissal from any other employer.
But Edmund knew he needed the man, and such honesty didn’t bother him in the slightest. In fact, he appreciated it when most others around him now were more often likely to defer to him even when they shouldn’t.
It didn’t take long for Edmund to trust Brimley’s opinion as much as he trusted Mr. Pontifort.
In truth, he trusted no one else in this new world.
Throwing a forearm over his eyes, he grumbled, “Goddammit, Brim, must you be so bloody annoying in the morning?”
“Yes, my lord,” his valet retorted in the prim, almost sneering way he had, “it’s the only way to get your arse out of that bed.”
Groaning his displeasure, Edmund made the effort to get himself seated at the edge of the bed with a stretch of muscles and a rough shake of his head.
“What am I doing today?”
The valet gave him a slim side-eye. “The British Museum, my lord.”
“Why in hell—” Edmund began in confusion before recalling his current endeavor and gave a ragged sigh. “Right.”
The British Museum had been near the top of the list he’d been given of places his quarry frequented. Apparently, the lady enjoyed spending free afternoons wandering about the musty exhibits.
Though a visit to the museum wasn’t something he expected to be riveting, the idea of engaging with Lady Lydia was surprisingly motivating.
Sloughing off the last of his sleepiness, he rose to his feet.
Within another hour, he was properly bathed, shaved, and dressed.
As it was already past noon, he did not dally over breakfast and was soon out the door.
The British Museum was located in Montague House, a palatial building with an impressive front garden entrance.
Though he’d never visited before, he knew it contained various collections of arts and antiquities, along with some scientific curiosities, specimens of natural history, and one or two libraries.
When he first approached and entered the building, he experienced a frisson of awkward discomfort as several fellow patrons tossed him curious, questioning glances.
To disguise the sensation of being somewhere he shouldn’t be, he embraced the entitled swagger that had gotten him through other similar moments since entering high society.
Act like you belong and others will believe it.
Over the next hour, he wandered from room to room, scanning for a young woman with nearly black hair and an expression that bordered between subtly annoyed and deeply distracted.
He was about to give up and settle on the assumption that Lady Lydia had decided not to attend the museum today when he noticed a solitary figure in the corner of a room displaying Egyptian artifacts.
Partially concealed by a large stone statue of some Egyptian deity, a female sat on a small bench set against the wall.
Her head was bent over a sketchbook in her lap.
Holding a small bit of charcoal, her hand moved across the page in sweeping arcs and small swirls.
Even without a clear view of her face, Edmund knew it was her.
He felt it. A prickle of awareness at his nape. A tingling ripple through his blood. A clench of his stomach.
He paused, in part because his physical reaction to her was unsettling but also to consider his approach.
There were just a few others in the room—a middle-aged couple wandering slowly, their heads bent toward each other as they murmured over the displays, and a single elderly gentleman leaning on a cane as he gazed upon a huge stone relief across the room.
Though no one was paying him any mind, Edmund wanted to ensure his interest in the young lady was not noted.
His purpose might be to lure her into a compromising situation, but it was far too early to start any rumors.
Such a thing would likely spook the woman and he’d never have another chance to get close.
He circled her location with a casual air, keeping an eye on the other patrons. It wasn’t long until the couple made their way out of the room, followed shortly by the old man.
A thrill of anticipation lightened his step as he finally stalked closer to her corner.
She did not sit in the stiff and painfully straight posture he had become accustomed to seeing in society ladies.
There was a relaxed curve in her spine and a softness to her shoulders as she bent forward, fully focused on her drawing, her gaze lifting from the page only in flickering glances toward the statue he assumed she was sketching.
Her dark hair was swept into a simple twist at her nape with soft wisps falling against her temples and cheeks.
Her hands were ungloved and smudges of charcoal marred their tips.
Most of the ladies he’d encountered since entering society would never allow themselves to be seen in public while in such an unpolished state.
Lady Lydia appeared utterly unbothered.
Edmund came to a silent stop, still several paces away, and leaned his shoulder against the wall, content to observe her for a while longer.
There was something in her manner that intrigued him. He couldn’t call it charming or particularly lovely. But there was a sort of peacefulness to her lack of artifice. It was refreshing.
“How long do you plan to watch me like some maleficent specter?” Her voice was low but clear. Direct and unhesitant.
Edmund grinned. “How long have you known I was here?”
She paused the movement of her hand across the sketchbook and gave him a tilted glance. Her dark, sea-storm eyes held a gleam of irritation (as expected) and a hint of slightly sneering amusement (not expected).
“From the start,” she replied simply.
His smile widened. “And you waited for me.”
There was a brief dip between her brows before she firmly turned her attention back to her sketch. “I did not.”
He took a few steps toward her. “But you didn’t leave.”
She released a sigh and angled another look at him. “Should I be expected to abandon my chosen activity every time you decide to intrude upon my space?” Her tone became bitter. “A man lays claim to something and a woman must capitulate, forgoing her own desires for his?”
“I would never ask you to forgo your desires, my lady,” he said with an easy grin. “I only wish to share them with you.”
Though he suspected by the tightening of her jaw that she did not miss his innuendo, she chose to willfully ignore it with an arched brow and innocent tone. “You wish to sketch?”
Edmund chuckled at the turn the encounter had taken. “Certainly,” he declared, stepping toward her.
Without hesitation, she snapped her piece of charcoal in half then tore a piece of paper from the binding of her sketchbook and extended both to him with a condescending smile.
She didn’t trust his intentions. Rightfully so.
But he could be a stubborn son-of-a-bitch, so he took the materials and found a spot near—but not too near—her with a proper view of the subject.
Then he lowered himself to the marble floor.
Propping himself on one hand, he bent one leg and planted the other foot.
Setting the paper on the smooth floor, he began to sketch.
It took a little while before the lady turned her dubious stare away from him and back to her own drawing. She seemed content to ignore him, and he allowed it. He’d already decided that his usual method of seduction—a wicked smile and a bold, carnal gaze—would not work so well with this one.
No matter, he was open to learning new skills.
Edmund had never attempted a sketch before. He had no idea if there was any particular method or technique. He just studied his subject, then tried to recreate what he saw. It was so much more difficult than he expected.
A few minutes into the process, he asked, “Do you do this often?”
There was a pause. Then, without looking up, she replied, “Sketch?”
“Visit the museum.”
She paused then, and he glanced up to see her staring pointedly at him. “I do, in fact,” she replied before tilting her head. “And never once have I seen you here.”
Edmund flashed a boyish smile. “Because I’ve never been.”
“And what brought you here today?”
A debt.
A challenge.
A curiosity.