"Boxly, have the carriage taken around and the trunks removed," Kesseley said. "Make sure Miss Watson's belongings are brought to the lavender chamber."
"Very good, my lord."
Several footmen now swarmed the carriage and the butler hurried down the steps to direct them. Kesseley reached over and pushed the door shut, then turned and gazed at Henrietta.
"Do you approve?" he whispered.
"Oh yes." She smiled, taking his hands into hers. Then, without thinking, she rose onto her tiptoes and kissed the edge of his jaw. The rasp of male skin tingled her lips.
She quickly stepped back, careful to keep her eyes from his face. "Thank you," she said, the words almost lost in her breath. She thought perhaps he hadn't heard, until he brushed her cheek with his fingers, then ran his thumb under her chin and lifted her face.
"My pleasure," he replied. "Shall I show you to your chamber?" Something hot and deep pulsed in her most private place, as if he had suggested not only showing her the room, but her bed-and what was was that bulge in his pantaloons? that bulge in his pantaloons?
Oh heavens. This was temporary, she told herself, just excitement from the trip. She loved Edward. She wasn't supposed to have these feelings for other gentlemen, especially Kesseley. He was like her brother. It was all wrong and quite disturbing.
He studied her face, that twinkle in his eyes now burning as bright as Sirius. Nor could she allow him to have feelings for her, she reminded herself. For a second, she had lost sight of her mission. Get Edward back and find a perfect, wonderful, loving wife for Kesseley. She stepped away, sliding her chin from his fingers. But when he held out his arm, she had no choice but to take it. She kept herself rigid, making sure no additional parts of their bodies touched, as he led her up the stairs to the third floor.
He opened a squat white door at the back of the landing, and sweet lavender-scented air wafted into the hallway.
"After you." He bowed.
She and Samuel walked into a snug room, like a little hideaway. Immediately the hound rolled on his back and squirmed about on the cream-colored carpet. Lavender paper with a subtle leaf pattern covered the walls. A commode draped in white muslin had been set with an oval mirror, washbowl and pitcher. Centered on the back wall was a gray marble fireplace flanked on either side by two square windows curtained in soft white and lavender floral chintz and before the fireplace stood a petite oak writing desk and cushioned chair.
The room continued behind the stairs where the ceiling slanted, forming an alcove over a tiny bed that was hidden behind cotton drapes embroidered with tiny flowers. On a petite round side table, fresh lavender sprigs rose from an etched crystal vase.
"Where did they get lavender so early in the year?"
"It's a secret. I can't tell." He winked.
"Thank you, Kesseley. I always wanted to come to London, and this..." she gestured about her room, "...is perfect."
He didn't reply, just gazed at her, a softness in his deep gray eyes. Oh no.
"Well, I-I guess I should freshen up or umm...something," she stammered, suddenly painfully nervous.
He turned and pulled the servants' bell. "Ring if you need anything, and I'm next door, so you can always bang on the wall."
"You're next door!" Henrietta gasped. That shouldn't be proper. That shouldn't be proper. He laughed, clearly amused by her discomfort. He laughed, clearly amused by her discomfort.
"Would you like a bath brought up?"
Bath! She couldn't be naked with him just a wall away! What if a servant accidentally left the door open and he walked by and saw her? Yet her blood quickened at the thought of him studying her naked breasts, her belly, her thighs, the same way he now gazed at her face.
"Umm, no thank you. I'll j-just use the washstand."
A young woman in a crisp starched dress appeared at the threshold.
"Please bring up some fresh water for Miss Watson," he said.
"As you please, my lord." The servant curtsied.
"Come, Samuel." Kesseley clasped the doorknob and waited for his hound to amble out of the room, then shut the door.
"And send up the bath for me," she heard him call after the servant.
Oh worse! The image of naked Kesseley with water running down his wet sinewy arms flashed in her head. The image of naked Kesseley with water running down his wet sinewy arms flashed in her head.
"What is happening?" she squeaked.
She pounded her head with her palms, trying to clear her head. No luck. No luck.
Think of something else. Anything.
She hurried to the opposite wall and peered out the window down onto the little bricked courtyard. Stone walls ran down a small alley, partitioning courtyard gardens and mews. Below, a man lifted her trunk from the parked carriage, while another servant unhitched the horses and took them aside to be brushed.
She moved to the writing desk and lifted the top, finding a neat stack of stationery and a book. Volume I of The Secret Suitor The Secret Suitor by Mrs. Alexander Fairfax. This was her third novel and not one of her best, but still very good. Strange it should be here. She never imagined Lady Kesseley would approve of Mrs. Fairfax, much less have her novels available to guests. She set the book aside for later and pulled out a piece of stationery, sat down, crossed her legs very tightly together and began composing a letter to her father. by Mrs. Alexander Fairfax. This was her third novel and not one of her best, but still very good. Strange it should be here. She never imagined Lady Kesseley would approve of Mrs. Fairfax, much less have her novels available to guests. She set the book aside for later and pulled out a piece of stationery, sat down, crossed her legs very tightly together and began composing a letter to her father.
Next door she heard a muted heavy thud, like an iron tub being dropped on the floor, then the gurgle of water and footfalls. She tried not to envision Kesseley removing his clothes, letting them fall to the floor, revealing his smooth hard chest, the taut lines of his thighs-his sex dangling between his legs like Michelangelo's David. David. But the image got stuck in her head, like a bee trapped in the house, buzzing on the windowsill. But the image got stuck in her head, like a bee trapped in the house, buzzing on the windowsill.
Her knuckles turned white as she tightened her grip on her pen, forcing herself to concentrate on each word she wrote.
We have arrived in London. It was a long- There was a quiet rap at her door. She jumped, causing ink to splatter all over her letter.
"Yes?"
The servant had returned with a fresh pitcher of water. Behind her, the male servant from the courtyard had Henrietta's trunk hoisted on his back. He dumped the trunk on the floor, then staggered out, red-faced, taking deep heaving breaths. After the maid had poured water into Henrietta's washbowl, she knelt beside the trunk and began removing Henrietta's belongings.
Across the wall, she heard the thlunck thlunck of Kesseley stepping into water. He let out a deep "Ahhhh." In her mind flashed an image of his strong chest sinking into the water. of Kesseley stepping into water. He let out a deep "Ahhhh." In her mind flashed an image of his strong chest sinking into the water.
Henrietta thanked the servant and snatched her lap desk from her trunk, stuffed her letter and The Secret Suitor The Secret Suitor inside it, then hurried downstairs. Let the servant put her clothes and belongings where she may. Henrietta could straighten it out later. She just had to get away from the sounds of Kesseley bathing. inside it, then hurried downstairs. Let the servant put her clothes and belongings where she may. Henrietta could straighten it out later. She just had to get away from the sounds of Kesseley bathing.
Back on the first floor, she cautiously opened the door to a sunshine-yellow parlor with a magnificent vaulted ceiling. An expansive unlit chandelier hung down. The crystals caught the light streaming from long arched windows, breaking up the colors and casting small rainbows about the room.
She took a dainty rosewood chair by the windows and drew her little scuffed desktop onto her lap.
She had to get a wife for Kesseley, if just to get rid of these strange feelings. She loved Edward, after all, the poet who composed love sonnets. Not Kesseley, whose idea of fine art was commissioning portraits of his favorite dogs.
And Edward had a London house, as well, she reminded herself. He might be there this very moment.
With Lady Sara.
Ugh. Henrietta opened her desk and set to work on her project to transform Kesseley.
Kesseley stood, bathed and shaven, in fresh pantaloons and shirt, gazing out the window onto Curzon Street. He could not see a single tree, just stone, iron, cobble and a maid twirling a mop outside her employer's door. The air was acrid, choked with coal, sticking deep in his throat.
He turned and studied his father's old chamber, crammed with opulence. Red carpets, glossy mahogany furniture, art hanging on every available space of wall. All this, Kesseley thought, while he drove his tenants to poverty and scoured his soil. It had taken Kesseley eight years to put to rights the rundown estate he'd inherited. Just now he could walk through Wrenthorpe at ease, not having some awful memory sneak up on him. Yet here, his father was all about him, thick in the air.
He would have called the carriage to take him back to Norfolk if it weren't for Henrietta. She adored London. He wanted to believe the lies he'd told his mother, that he no longer held any romantic feelings for Henrietta, that he was merely helping her escape an unwanted suitor. But each touch or small smile electrified his body.
She had to feel same attraction, he was sure of it. What else could explain the shiver he had felt run through her body when she kissed him? The nervous flutter when he mentioned his room was next door?
He turned and stared at their adjoining wall. A small hope began stirring in his heart once more.
Kesseley's valet, Baggot, came in holding a forest-green coat in his one arm. Baggot had been Kesseley's most reliable groomsman until an accident hitching a carriage severed his arm. "I noticed all the gentlemen fellers wearing yeller here, so I chose this nice dandylike yeller coat. Then you'll look as fine as them all," he assured Kesseley.
Kesseley sucked in a breath, bracing himself to make another vain attempt. "That coat is green."
Baggot scrunched his face, his bottom lip hanging loose in confusion. "That coat is as yeller as the day I was born. Ain't I the valet?"
Kesseley sighed. It was useless. There were only so many times he could explain John Dalton's theory of color perception deficiencies to Baggot. Perhaps it was best to let the valet remain in his blissfully ignorant yellow world.
"Yes, you are the valet. Please help me with the yellow yellow jacket." Kesseley poked his arms into the sleeves and Baggot tugged with his one arm until most of the wrinkles were removed. jacket." Kesseley poked his arms into the sleeves and Baggot tugged with his one arm until most of the wrinkles were removed.
Kesseley came down to the parlor. The tension between the two women hit him like a fist. His mother was busy at her bureau desk, addressing letters. Henrietta sat by the front windows, writing on her lap desk.
She raised her head and smiled at him. However, it was his mother who spoke. "I don't know why I bothered writing instructions to the journals. They all posted our arrival a week early. Look at all these invitations. Was everyone waiting with their pens like the start line at Newmarket?"
Before her lay two piles of letters, one considerably higher than the other. He reached for the top letter of larger pile. "That's an invitation to an exceptional ball tomorrow night at Lady Huntly's," his mother said. "Her niece is making her debut this year. She has a 10,000 pound dowry and an easy, quiet temperament. It is said she sings and arranges flowers well. The following night, we shall go to Lord and Lady Dougherty's ball. This is their daughter's second Season, but I understand she expected an offer from Mr. Yarrow before his tragic hunting accident, so we can't hold that last Season against her. That leaves Wednesday night open, perhaps for Almack's or the opera."
"Almack's!" Henrietta exclaimed from across the room.
"Lord save us," his mother muttered.
Couldn't she be nicer to Henrietta?
He pulled up a chair next to Henrietta. On the top of her lap desk rested a sketch. Before looking carefully, he said, "How nice," trying to compensate for his mother's simmering hostility.
Henrietta cut her gaze to his mother, and then held out the drawing. Kesseley swallowed. On the page was a flat rendition of the street outside that would make a draftsman shudder. On the sidewalk, she had drawn two finely detailed dandies like scientific dissections, lines pointing to their jackets, pants, boots, hats, with detailed descriptions of color, length and cut. She had even written the name of the cravats. Kesseley stared feeling his heart sink. For a few hours, he'd thought Henrietta had forgotten about her little charade. But he was wrong.
"You can take that to Schweitzer and Davidson," she assured him.
"Thank you," Kesseley responded, setting the drawing on the side table.
She opened her lap desk and drew out a tin box and a book that was covered in white cloth and embroidered with ivy leaves. "This is for you," she said. "It's the diary I made for you and some other things that I thought might help you."
He opened the box and found a stack of clippings. He picked up the top one and held it to the light. It was an illustration of a fop in a blue coat with ridiculously padded shoulders. His father would have worn such an atrocity.
"I think a blue-gray coat like the one in the picture would match your eyes nicely," she said.
Kesseley yanked at his cravat. "I have to get out of here!"
His mother's head shot up.
"I'm sorry, what did I say?" Henrietta asked, alarmed.
"I mean, I would like to go to the park and have a nice stroll," he said, trying to smooth over his outburst. "Let's all go to the park."
Chapter Six.
Henrietta observed a bank of dense, gray clouds building to the west. The air was growing sticky. By evening it would rain. But for now, she and the throng of people passing through the iron gate at Hyde Corner were optimistic the sky would hold if just for one fashionable hour.
She had never seen so many smart people in one place, except in the pages of magazines, and they weren't real. Promenade and walking dresses in sheer muslin, flounced with dainty lace and lined with rich sarsenet. Imagine actually owning gowns exclusively for walking in the park, Henrietta thought, as she looked down at the white muslin gown she had worn both to the parson's for dinner and church. How fine the expensive fabric had seemed when she bought it in Ely. She had run her fingers over the thin, almost translucent muslin, imagining the gown she would create, thinking how fashionable she would be. Yet here it seemed so commonplace. Forgettable. She was just an ordinary bluebell in a large, exotic flower garden.
Even the men were beautiful. Shining Hessians, tight doeskins, cravats in all sorts of elaborate knots, and carefree curls that seemed to tumble into just the right spot on their forehead. They strolled in smooth motions, their eyes half shut as if bored by the scene.
Kesseley seemed so out of place, a walking, unmatched mass of wrinkled fabric and wild hair. Like a tall seedling weed rising above the flowers, begging for the gardener's sickle.
Three rather goggled-eyed and homely young misses burst into giggles upon passing him. Henrietta reeled around, a primitive, protective instinct burning in her breast. One clever girl was discreetly pointing to a grass stain stretching across Kesseley's thigh while her friends laughed behind their hands.
Some inner feline sharpened its claws. She restrained herself from pulling every little silk bow and bead from the ladies' fine pelisses.
But another sight stole the girls' attention, causing them to release a collective gasp. A handsome buck cantered along the fence separating the riders from walkers.
Henrietta's heart squeezed shut. Everything vanished from her thoughts-the goggle-eyed girls, Kesseley and his mother-everything but the graceful rider.
Edward.
His beautiful face shined out from all the other faces. Even from a few feet away, she could see the sparkling glint in his eyes. He tilted his face to the sun, letting the wind tousle the curls peeping below his curled hat.
Did he not see her? Could he not feel her? She stepped forward to follow Edward's progress and inadvertently brushed against Kesseley.
"Pardon," she murmured.
He looked down and smiled, clearly innocent of Edward's presence.
Up ahead, Edward had caught up to a diminutive chestnut horse holding an elegant lady clad in cornflower blue. Henrietta could not see the rider's face, only the ridiculous daisies poking out of her bonnet. He tipped his hat to the lady, that beautiful, almost crooked grin curling his lips.
Henrietta closed her eyes and bit down on the soft skin of her lower lip, hoping the pain would keep the tears away. That smile belonged to her. He was hers.
When she opened her eyes again, two big white horses' mouths were shoved in her face, lips open, displaying square yellow teeth. Henrietta jumped back.
The matching bays drew a curricle containing two of the most exotic women Henrietta had ever seen. She could only stare.
They had the contradictory appearance of being at one time older and younger than they were. Their rosy cheeks and lips belied a hint of wrinkles about the corners of their eyes.
A dark brunette held the reins in her slender fingers. Large glossy curls framed her fine-boned face. The lady's almond eyes were a brilliant copper.