He followed the footman into a quieter alcove where Lord Kittridge was waiting.
The man looked like a wax figure left too close to a fire—sallow skin, drawn cheeks, eyes like dull marbles. He was old, but not weak. Alasdair could sense that at once. Kittridge reeked of calculation.
“Your Grace,” Kittridge said, smiling just enough to seem gracious. “Welcome.”
“Lord Kittridge,” Alasdair replied with equal poise, bowing his head.
“How are you finding London this Season?” the man asked.
“Busy,” Alasdair answered. “I’ve never received so many invitations. It’s been… enlightening.”
Kittridge nodded as though he expected the answer. “We’re glad you’ve joined our discussions. There’s much we can accomplish, with the right men beside us.”
Alasdair forced a polite smile. Elizabeth’s voice echoed in his head, urging him to blend in to change the system.
So, he smiled. He agreed. He made conversation.
But beneath the surface, all he could see was Elizabeth.
Flushed. Breathless. Lips swollen from his kiss.
The memory clung to him like smoke. It filled his lungs and refused to let go.
And even surrounded by lords and power, Alasdair knew?—
He was completely, utterly lost.
Chapter Seventeen
“Don’t you dare say you regret not choosing the hat with the blue feathers,” Marianne said as they stepped out of the milliner’s and into the summer-bright street. “I’ll never forgive you if you do.”
Elizabeth laughed, squinting against the sunlight as they strolled across the cobblestones. “I don’t regret it. I merely foresee Lady Grisham comparing me to a blue jay squawking for a mate.”
“Anelegantblue jay,” Marianne countered cheerfully. “There’s nothing wrong with a little plumage now and then. We should all look a little wild from time to time.”
Elizabeth shook her head, but her lips twitched with amusement. She had missed this—her sister’s humor, the ease of walking side by side without judgment pressing on her spine like a weight.
“Do you have everything you need?” Marianne asked, glancing at the small stack of boxes now secured with twine and nestled in the waiting footman’s arms.
“I do,” Elizabeth replied. “And several ribbons and bonnets that Lady Grisham might disapprove of. Which means, I believe, we’ve succeeded.”
Marianne gave a satisfied sigh. “Excellent. Our time was not wasted.”
But for all their levity, there was a quieter truth to their outing. This wasn’t simply about hats and ribbons. Marianne would be leaving London again soon, returning to Oakmere with her husband and her new responsibilities. Elizabeth knew this walk through Bond Street wasn’t just an indulgence—it was a farewell, of sorts. And a moment of stolen freedom.
They passed by confectioners and silk merchants, pausing occasionally but buying nothing more. Elizabeth’s gaze lingered only once—on a small, tidy art shop nestled between a stationer and a bookseller. A modest place, with warped windows and a dusty canvas in the front, but something about it called to her.
“Let’s go in here,” she said suddenly.
Marianne looked up at the sign and grinned. “Ah. Still drawn to charcoal and ink? Good. I worried you’d forgotten.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I’ve actually been drawing more lately. I’m not sure why, it’s just… come back. Like a tug in the chest.”
The bell chimed gently as they entered. The scent of paper and wood and old pigment greeted them like an old friend.
Inside, the walls were lined with delicate brushes, rich blocks of watercolor, tubes of oil paint in muted golds and greens, and sketchbooks bound in leather.
She took a deep breath, as if she could absorb inspiration through the air.