After some hesitation over whether he even ought to do it—in case Miss Woodley intended to bolt if she knew she was being searched for—Hugh finally left his name and direction in London with the footman. Along with the message, “Your father misses you.”
He’d no choice but to return to London. But he’d go back to Surrey at his first opportunity. He’d go to Bath, if he had to. He sensed he was close to the truth.
He wondered that the only notion he could currently muster about this was relief. Perhaps because he was too weary and too preoccupied.
He’d be leaving for Portsmouth to meet Uncle Liam in just a few days.
Once he’d returned to The Grand Palace on the Thames, he’d purposely gone straightaway to the ballroom to commence the hanging of the curtains.
Between this and traveling, if he was careful, he might never see the Vaughns again.
With that thought, he went motionless. As if to avoid jarring any inconvenient emotions loose.
He hesitated. Then he drew a bit of the soft weight of the curtains between his fingers and lived again the feel of the soft swell of Lillias’s breast beneath his lips.
Lust nearly gave him vertigo. He closed his eyes against it.
The life of an aristocrat—her life—meant velvet anywhere, anytime. Velvet was cast away for other velvet when the whim for another color took you. Was this careless abundance better than fleetingmoments of savoring rare pleasures? Did life—did a kiss—owe its sweetness to its brevity? To the fact that it would necessarily end?
He heard footsteps in the hallway outside the ballroom. Light and swift.
His heart lurched.
He went still.
The footsteps stopped.
He didn’t dare turn around.
His heart had taken up a slow, hard drumming. He wasn’t certain whether he wanted them to keep going, past the door.
He slowly turned.
Lillias was standing at the doorway. As surely as if the mere thought of rare pleasure had conjured her.
She was wearing a shade of marigold silk trimmed in copper ribbon and it colluded with the mahogany of her hair.
Damned if it wasn’t exactly like the first time he’d seen her.
It was like a blow to the head. It was a collision with some cosmic force he could never hope to understand. He was no hero, bear or no bear. He was Achilles. She was his velvet-clad heel.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” she said very formally.
“Not at all.” His voice sounded husky and formal in his own ears.
“I wasn’t certain whether I should... whether you’d want...” She stopped.
He couldn’t say a word.
“The curtains look beautiful.” She stepped into the room and mounted the little stairs to the stage, and he tracked her every move. “I saw the dooropen and I . . . I thought . . . I understand you’re leaving for Portsmouth to meet your Uncle Liam soon.”
“Yes. In two days’ time. It’s kind of you to remember. I’m very much looking forward to seeing him.”
They were speaking as though they’d just been handed a script.
She smiled uncertainly. “We will be gone from The Grand Palace on the Thames and back in our home for good before you return.”
He went still. “Is that so?”