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Authors: Meredith Duran
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donned.” From behind her ear, a red tress sprang to freedom, tickling her chin.
Portentous, that lock of hair. He found himself riveted by it. Its message seemed clear: he was witnessing the total collapse, mental and physical, of London’s golden girl. If it sent all her hair tumbling, he would not even oppose it.
He released the image on a long breath. Now she was making his brain misfire. If she collapsed, he’d have a much harder time finding a man willing to marry her. Lunatics lacked cachet.
Her hand rose to tuck the curl away. “Terribly tragic,” she said absently. “Little boys and girls, with no . . .” She glanced toward her valise and frowned.
“Sweaters,” he said helpfully. Generally she was a much better liar than this, persuasively complimenting any number of people for virtues they did not possess. Were it otherwise, she would never have been so popular with her set.
“Sweaters, yes!” With another bright smile for him, and a covert glance for the letter, she bent to retrieve the valise. Judging by how easily she lifted it, it might even contain children’s sweaters. In which case, he was going to conclude that she’d lost her mind.
As she straightened, the smile flickered briefly, then strengthened again. “But how kind of you to drop by,” she said. “After that dreadful scene, no less. I hope you weren’t too discomfited. I expect we will see each other before you go abroad again?”
That was a very clumsy attempt at dismissal. Yielding to alarm, he took two steps up the stairs. Her pupils looked to be normal, so she hadn’t been administered a sedative. “Did you take a knock to the head today?”
She blinked. “No, of course not. Why do you ask?”
He tipped his head. “Would you call this behavior typical of you, then?”
She shifted her weight, clearly uncomfortable with the question. “Everyone is in the drawing room, you know.” Her eyes stole again to the letter, which now sat by his foot.
“Yes, I just came from there. Won’t you join us?” Certainly he couldn’t let her run off in this . . . state. Whatever it was. He supposed it did not speak well of him that he found it rather fascinating. Gwen Maudsley, come undone. He’d always had a fascination with how things came apart—clocks, telephones, the whatnot. But until now, he’d drawn the line at the dismantling of people. “Surely the orphans can wait an hour?”
She opened her mouth. He lifted a brow. She sighed and took a quick peek beyond him, then said in a lowered voice, “I will speak frankly, then. I don’t wish to attend the campaign session.”
“Campaign session.” He was beginning to feel like a parrot.
“Yes, you know, the Campaign to Save Gwen from Eternal Humiliation, again .” She produced a wry smile. This one proved less stable than her cheerful mien; it slipped quickly away. “But you mustn’t let me keep you from it. I expect you will be quite useful to them. They already used up their best ideas the last time.”
She descended a step. He laid a hand on either banister, blocking her path. “And what of your attendance? Should you not be rather interested in the outcome?”
She eyed his hands. “Not really. I have decided my path.”
“Oh? How intriguing. Where does it lead?”
She gave him a blank look. “To the orphanage.”
Right. He bent down to pick up the letter. A gasp came from above him. “That’s mine!” she cried.
“I’ll just hand it up—”
A large, soft weight smacked into his head, throwing him off his balance. He staggered sideways, letter in hand; missed a step, cursed, and took a great leap clear of the stairs.
Safely on his feet, he straightened and looked up. She stood wide-eyed, her hands cupped over her mouth, her brown eyes huge. The valise now lay several steps below her, having split open to disgorge a great mess of . . . yarn.
His brain balked. “You didn’t—did you throw that at me?” No. It was inconceivable.
About as
Portentous, that lock of hair. He found himself riveted by it. Its message seemed clear: he was witnessing the total collapse, mental and physical, of London’s golden girl. If it sent all her hair tumbling, he would not even oppose it.
He released the image on a long breath. Now she was making his brain misfire. If she collapsed, he’d have a much harder time finding a man willing to marry her. Lunatics lacked cachet.
Her hand rose to tuck the curl away. “Terribly tragic,” she said absently. “Little boys and girls, with no . . .” She glanced toward her valise and frowned.
“Sweaters,” he said helpfully. Generally she was a much better liar than this, persuasively complimenting any number of people for virtues they did not possess. Were it otherwise, she would never have been so popular with her set.
“Sweaters, yes!” With another bright smile for him, and a covert glance for the letter, she bent to retrieve the valise. Judging by how easily she lifted it, it might even contain children’s sweaters. In which case, he was going to conclude that she’d lost her mind.
As she straightened, the smile flickered briefly, then strengthened again. “But how kind of you to drop by,” she said. “After that dreadful scene, no less. I hope you weren’t too discomfited. I expect we will see each other before you go abroad again?”
That was a very clumsy attempt at dismissal. Yielding to alarm, he took two steps up the stairs. Her pupils looked to be normal, so she hadn’t been administered a sedative. “Did you take a knock to the head today?”
She blinked. “No, of course not. Why do you ask?”
He tipped his head. “Would you call this behavior typical of you, then?”
She shifted her weight, clearly uncomfortable with the question. “Everyone is in the drawing room, you know.” Her eyes stole again to the letter, which now sat by his foot.
“Yes, I just came from there. Won’t you join us?” Certainly he couldn’t let her run off in this . . . state. Whatever it was. He supposed it did not speak well of him that he found it rather fascinating. Gwen Maudsley, come undone. He’d always had a fascination with how things came apart—clocks, telephones, the whatnot. But until now, he’d drawn the line at the dismantling of people. “Surely the orphans can wait an hour?”
She opened her mouth. He lifted a brow. She sighed and took a quick peek beyond him, then said in a lowered voice, “I will speak frankly, then. I don’t wish to attend the campaign session.”
“Campaign session.” He was beginning to feel like a parrot.
“Yes, you know, the Campaign to Save Gwen from Eternal Humiliation, again .” She produced a wry smile. This one proved less stable than her cheerful mien; it slipped quickly away. “But you mustn’t let me keep you from it. I expect you will be quite useful to them. They already used up their best ideas the last time.”
She descended a step. He laid a hand on either banister, blocking her path. “And what of your attendance? Should you not be rather interested in the outcome?”
She eyed his hands. “Not really. I have decided my path.”
“Oh? How intriguing. Where does it lead?”
She gave him a blank look. “To the orphanage.”
Right. He bent down to pick up the letter. A gasp came from above him. “That’s mine!” she cried.
“I’ll just hand it up—”
A large, soft weight smacked into his head, throwing him off his balance. He staggered sideways, letter in hand; missed a step, cursed, and took a great leap clear of the stairs.
Safely on his feet, he straightened and looked up. She stood wide-eyed, her hands cupped over her mouth, her brown eyes huge. The valise now lay several steps below her, having split open to disgorge a great mess of . . . yarn.
His brain balked. “You didn’t—did you throw that at me?” No. It was inconceivable.
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