Chapter Twenty-Two
Villier’s bookshop was so busy the day of Ms. Symone’s signing that dozens of people, the majority of them women, spilled out onto the cobblestone street in front of the store, copies of their books clutched to their chests.
As the carriage drew to a stop a few feet from the entrance, a seed of worry took root in Arden’s stomach, and he turned to his aunt.
“Perhaps all of the excitement—”
“If you finish that sentence, I’ll have you shipped back to Strall on the next train,” his aunt interrupted with a glower.
Arden sighed. “I fear that threat is beginning to lose its effectiveness.” But he obliged in stepping out of the carriage and helping her down.
When he offered to carry the two volumes of Ms. Symone’s books she’d brought with her, she waved him off, insisting on carrying the books herself, cradled in the crook of one arm while she linked her other arm through his.
He pretended not to notice how heavily she leaned on him as they approached the shop.
“You’ve been quiet today, Arden—though I’d wager I know where your mind is after last night.” His aunt gave him a knowing smile out of the corner of her eye.
Panic seized Arden’s heart. It was true he’d been quiet, but only because his mind kept returning to thoughts of Mavis on the beach the night before.
He might not have seen her come apart because of him, but the memory of her sighs and moans and the feel of her skin against his was enough to drive him mad.
Had his aunt seen them together before he donned his invisibility?
“It is a shame that Miss Mayles couldn’t join us today,” his aunt continued, and Arden had to force himself not to let out an audible sigh. “But I saw how she looked at you while you danced—I do think she’s quite smitten with you.”
Was she? That familiar guilt reared in the pit of Arden’s stomach, mixed with a new frustration since once Oriana did accept his suit, his tryst with Mavis would end.
He wasn’t nearly ready for that to happen even though he felt the looming specter of his aunt’s impending death—only a week and a half away now, according to the Ruteledges.
They joined the queue that led to the bookshop’s doors, and Arden was keenly aware of the heat of the sun beaming down directly on them, and of how long his aunt would be standing there. He braced himself for his aunt’s ire before he suggested once again that she wait in the carriage.
Just as he expected, his aunt fixed him with a glare so cold the summer heat seemed slightly more temperate.
“I will not spend my last days reclining on some fainting couch while servants fan me, Arden.” She paused. “Not that I haven’t enjoyed that sort of leisure before, but soon I will have nothing before me but eternal leisure.”
Arden knew a losing fight when he saw one. “Well, if you do faint, I will be forced to carry you away. It will create quite a scene.”
She considered this for a moment. “Given the crowd here, I do hope you’ll be a dear and undo the top buttons of your shirt for them, perhaps roll up your shirtsleeves? It would be like a scene from one of Miss Symone’s books.”
“Except for the fact that I am your great-nephew,” he pointed out mildly.
“Oh, there’s no need to throw around great like that.” She scowled. “And no one needs to know that—I daresay we’re the only Lusters in attendance.”
Arden wondered if that might dim his aunt’s excitement, but after a second, she sighed.
“Apparently, our divine inheritance does not correlate to taste,” she said with a sniff. “But do remind me to buy some books for Francine and Dottie.”
Arden had only a vague idea of who Francine and Dottie were, but he promised her he would.
The line moved quickly, and it was only a quarter of an hour before they were out of the sun and into the shop.
As the queue inched closer toward the back of the shop, Arden caught a glimpse of a woman sitting behind the shopkeeper’s counter, a towering pile of books to one side of her and a fountain pen in hand while Mr. Villier hovered behind her, taking a book from the pile and opening it before handing it to her to sign.
Arden hadn’t put much thought into what Ariel Ann Symone might look like, but whatever he imagined was woefully wrong.
She was near his own age with hair so black it almost appeared blue, swept back from an oval face set with large, heavily fringed gray eyes that tilted up at the corners like a cat’s and a full, sensual mouth painted a bright red that matched the dress she wore—a dress that was cut scandalously low in the front for the middle of the afternoon.
The only jewelry she wore was a silver ring on her right hand that glinted in the low light of the shop.
“Oh, my.” His aunt craned her neck to follow his gaze. “She’s very striking.”
Striking was precisely the right word. She couldn’t rightly be called anything as simple as pretty or lovely—those words belonged to women like Oriana, who sipped tea with perfect manners and danced gracefully across the parquet floors of a ballroom.
Something about the woman reminded him of Mavis, though they could hardly look more different.
He got the feeling Ariel Ann Symone was a woman who saw through artifice and suffered no fools.
“Do you know,” his aunt continued, her voice thoughtful. “If I were several decades younger, I might drag her down the street to my modiste and instruct her to make me a gown that precise shade of red.”
Arden glanced sideways at his aunt, who only ever wore soft pastels, and raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that, I would never attempt to mimic the cut—unlike Ms. Symone, I don’t possess the bosom for it,” she told him frankly.
The last thing Arden wanted to think about was his aunt’s bosom—or Ms. Symone’s, for that matter. “While I must stop you from accosting Miss Symone, I think you should visit your modiste after this and see if you can describe the shade of red to her. It would suit you quite well.”
Now it was his aunt’s turn to look at him askance. “Don’t patronize me, Arden. Where would I wear it? To my own death ball?”
Arden’s throat felt suddenly tight at the turn the conversation had taken. “I’m not patronizing you,” he assured her as they moved up in line, now only a few people away from the front. “And that’s a brilliant idea—don’t call it a death ball, though, but a . . . farewell ball.”
She pursed her lips in thought, but after a moment, she shook her head. “That simply isn’t done, Arden.”
“And here I thought you intended to make the most of the time you have left. I don’t see why that shouldn’t include wearing a red dress and hosting one of your infamous balls one last time—you said yourself that you miss playing hostess.
Why should you deny yourself that because it simply isn’t done? ”
His aunt fell quiet at that, but he could tell she was mulling over his words.
When they finally reached the front of the line, Ariel Ann Symone greeted them with a smile that could only be described as coy as she held her hands out for his aunt’s books, which she eagerly handed over.
“Ms. Symone, it’s so wonderful to meet you,” his aunt enthused, clutching Arden’s arm tighter as she beamed at the woman.
“And you.” Her voice was a low purr. She paused with the tip of her fountain pen pressed to the title page of Affair of the Darkest Heart. “What is your name?”
“Philomena, but please don’t sign it to me. Hardly any point to that, is there?” She gave a wry laugh that caused the vise around Arden’s chest to tighten. Before he could muster a response, she continued. “Please, would you sign it to Oriana?”
Ms. Symone’s pen stuttered, causing a short trail of ink to glisten on the page. She covered it with the flourish of an O. “And who is Oriana?”
His aunt leaned forward and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The young lady my nephew is courting.”
Arden’s ears grew warm.
“Aunt Phi.” He couldn’t keep the exasperation from his voice. “I apologize, Ms. Symone—Oriana is a friend and a great admirer of your books.”
“I see.” Ms. Symone’s pale-gray eyes scrutinized Arden thoughtfully. “She must be quite a woman for you to be courting her.”
Aunt Phi beamed. “Oh, she is. She is the very picture of beauty and grace, isn’t she, Arden?”
Both Ms. Symone and his aunt watched him closely, and he had to clear his throat before answering. “Indeed. Not to mention brilliantly clever. She is everything a man could want in a wife.”
Despite his best attempts, the words came out hollow.
“Do you love her?” Ms. Symone asked, her tone deceptively casual.
Arden’s collar suddenly felt two sizes too tight, and he fought the urge to tug at it for relief.
“I admire her a great deal,” he managed after a brief pause.
“I see.” Ms. Symone’s eyes twinkled as she glanced at his aunt. “One should never settle for admiration in lieu of love when it comes to marriage, don’t you agree, madam? It makes for such a vapid substitution that one would be better off not bothering with marriage at all.”
“Well.” His aunt glanced between Arden and Ms. Symone. “Love does grow. Your own books are a testament to that. And other things might come of a marriage even if love does not—security, companionship, perhaps, and children.”
“I suppose.” Ms. Symone pursed her lips as she signed the second book before looking up at Arden with an inscrutable gaze. “Is that enough for you to tie your future to someone else’s, sir?”
Arden blinked. Since he arrived in Garlin, he never stopped to ask himself that question, and judging by the way his aunt shifted next to him, she’d never considered it either.