And this building—they had begun to refer to it rather grandly as “the Annex”—needed everything The Grand Palace on the Thames had needed before they opened for business: new wallpaper and carpets and curtains, hammer and nails and lots of scrubbing and polishing and perhaps its own cat to chase away rodents. And furniture.
It hadn’t a grand chandelier in its foyer, but the floors were marble. It hadn’t a vast cozy kitchen with the kind of stove that Helga presided over like a symphony conductor, but the suites were much larger and not too drafty. There were fewer rooms for staff, but they were a little larger, so any families who wished to stay there could house their servants.
And then there was the ballroom.
It was currently decorated courtesy of spiders, and the afternoon light glinted from webs. There were rodent droppings in the corners instead of courting couples or gossiping friends. But if they squinted, they could envision bunting instead of webs, and hear the music, and see the jewel-colored gowns flashing beneath a chandelier as couples rotated about to the sound of a fine orchestra. And for an instant she indulged in a fantasy of twirling around that room in the arms of Lord Bolt.
Certainly deciding that she and Lord Bolt would be friends had made him a little safer.
In the way that putting a tiger in a cage made one alittlesafer.
He was, in fact, all that was respectful.
But she hadn’t anticipated that their exchanges of confidences would act as a sort of loom. He threw a thread, she threw a thread. And suddenly she felt as though they were like Delacorte’s shirt and her sleeve: unexpectedly bound. Her favorite color (green), the name of the first horse he’d ever ridden (Bunny), the story about his first fencing master (who’d run off with one of his father’s maids).
But that’s what friendship was, wasn’t it?
Until the first thing she did when she walked into a room was to look about for him, as if he were the warmest seat by the fire.
To discover that his eyes were already on her, like the beacon she ought to follow.
Ironically the Lord Bolt who lived in the broadsheets, who fought duels and brawled and made outlandish bets, seemed infinitely safer than the one in the drawing room who held her yarn and mined her secrets. She did not want to know thereasonsfor him, and yet it was too late. She saw his youthful recklessness as a result of wounds. She saw his intelligence and strength and resilience and wit.
She liked his arrogance, because she was perverse.
Sometimes when she looked at his long, beautiful hands, a rush of blood to her head nearly stopped her breathing and she needed to move across the room, away from him, because that was the safe thing to do. One needed to breathe in order to survive, after all.
And he had not once touched her since he’d kissed her. Not even surreptitiously, and most men certainly would try.
Which was all for the best. She was relieved, was she not?
Because the closer they became, the more they knew of each other, the more dangerous any ensuing kiss would be. Things that are bound together make terrible ripping noises when torn asunder. She wanted no more pain, and no more sundering.
“I thought we could build a little covered walkway between the two buildings, for inclement weather, so our guests could somehow go to and fro,” she said abstractedly to Delilah.
“And we’ll definitely need to hire footmen to answer doors and carry messages to and fro. Our maids are busy enough as it is.”
“And perhaps a coach and four to ferry all of our guests to the opera and to promenade on Rotten Row.”
Delilah turned to Angelique, eyebrows upraised wryly.
“Since we’re dreaming,” Angelique clarified.
Once upon a time it had been Delilah persuading a reluctant Angelique to dream.
“Footmen will cause riots with our maids and double our food budget. And yet I think we do need to hire them,” Delilah mused.
“It might be an adventure,” Angelique allowed.
“Has Lord Bolt said anything more about wanting to purchase this building?”
“Not to me. We can only hope he’s exploring all of his other options throughout the city, if that’s his ambition.”
Delilah sighed. “Well, at least we’ll be prepared with a plan should a miracle occur and we muster the funds needed for our first payment.”
“Precisely. And since it hasn’t the modestly sized gargoyles that our building has, perhaps window boxes with flowers.”
“I wonder if the tunnels that run beneath our building pass beneath this one. Wouldn’t that be interesting?”