Belle barely heard him, lost in thought. She was not averse to commitment—the relationship she’d discussed with the Black Widow was proof of that. Memories surfaced of the one man she’d let get away. The Earl of Northumberland hadn’t ever said it, but she was positive he’d have married her if she’d agreed to leave London with him, despite his title. He was older than her and already had his heir, which helped. But she’d been young and stupid. Now she was older and tired.
Having lost her appetite, she checked his plate. He’d stopped eating, also, his knife and fork aligned on his almost-empty plate. She gestured to the footmen to clear the table.
He asked, “Why not reach out to one of those benefactors? Or would your profession put them off marriage?”
“Weren’t you?”
His cheeks went pink. “I apologize for my comment in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office. That was poorly done of me. It was a combination of shock at the topic of conversation and too much drink. The one good thing my father taught me that was worthwhile was to judge a person by what you learn of their character. Not what others tell you or by a title.”
His liberal nonchalance at the chasm between their stations continued to amaze her. Moreover, given what he’d told her of his father’s high expectations of him, his last comment was unexpected. “A rule I live by, as well. I’m glad your father is not all bad.”
His lips twisted, but he did not comment.
A footman carried in two individual lemon tartlets, one of her favorite desserts. She dug her spoon in and savored a bite before continuing. “As for why I did not return to them, one of them ismarried now. For the other, I suppose ’tis pride in part, but I also don’t know that we want the same things now. I loved my time with him, but I wanted to stay in London. Now that has changed. But what if other things have changed on his side?”
He nodded and tried the miniature tart. Licking his lips, he ate a second spoonful then asked, “Why go to the widow to find a husband?”
“She caters to a very select clientele. Women who have pasts that might interfere with pursuing marriage but have funds enough to buy a husband. She vets the men to the client’s specifications, removing much of the risk.”
“And you have those funds?”
“Are you asking me about money, young man?” She arched a brow, waving her spoon at his look of consternation. “I am teasing. Yes, I have those funds. You’ll recall I told you last night I hoarded my funds. I asked for more whenever I dared and often got it. Then I found Charlotte, and she helped me invest it. And here I am. Retired now for several months.”
And lusting after the first attractive man to linger in my sight as a result.No, it was more than that. She enjoyed talking to him. If games were not so riddled with strings to betting, she’d have been more willing to play those. While he said he’d struggled at Oxford, the man also seemed to enjoy reading as much as she did.
The memory of her words to Bessie Dove-Lyon flitted through her head. Like she and North had, Luke also seemed to understand loneliness.
Chapter Twelve
Luke lay onhis pallet staring at the ceiling, his hands cupping his head on the pillow. His leash trailed along the pillow and floor to the bed.
Belle had fallen asleep within minutes, but his thoughts kept circling. Her question the day before about his day had plucked an unexpected response. He got that same sense of reward, of winning, through accomplishing a task, as he had from winning at dice or cards. Of course, it depended on the task and his mindset, but it had happened. In fact, he’d experienced that elation two days in a row.
Her past showed him he had a long way to go, however. Menial tasks would not hold his interest for long, nor were they the type of thing a future earl should spend time on. The differences between her achievements and his lack thereof continued to bother him. Which he supposed was a small step forward.
The obstacles in her past compared against a lack of such in his orbited the dark ceiling. There was something there to build on, he was sure of it. He lay for a long time considering the impediments in his world—other than his father, they were self-made. Hours later, he had a tentative idea of a productive use ofhis time. It would take time and capital and business sense, so he hoped Belle would add her insights, but even without that, he was eager to investigate it more.
He relaxed and turned his contemplation to the woman sleeping above him. What he wouldn’t give to have her truly above him, laying on him. But her story provoked respect and admiration even more than lust. He wanted to be like her, to impress her—not in lieu of making changes for himself but because she dazzled him and made him want to interact as an equal, rather than the burden he had been thus far.
Shaking his head, he admonished himself. Never mind him preening like a peacock for her. She deserved to get what she wanted. Such a magnificent, accomplished woman deserved the absolute best husband in the land. He fell asleep running through his university mates to see if any were worthy of her.
He descended the stairs the next morning at a trot, eager to see what Belle had in store for him that day.
But she came to the dining room door, face grim and paper in hand, as he reached the lower hall.
“What is amiss? Are you all right?” he asked, reaching for her forearm that held the paper.
She turned her wrist and thrust the paper into his hand, nodding at it.
A small notice a third of the way down the page she had it folded to read, “The Earl of Harrington, Frederick Stanton, aged 50, collapsed Tuesday night at White’s and could not be resuscitated. His wife, son, and daughter will hold a service in Southwark Cathedral on Saturday.”
“William,” he gasped. He’d been so self-involved coming to grips with his drinking and, well, life, he hadn’t checked on William. Now with his father dead, William was an earl.
Luke shook his head. He’d lain there the night before congratulating himself on accomplishing weeding a garden andpolishing a floor. He was such a failure. His friend had more responsibility than he needed, while Luke struggled even though he had none.
“I thought you might want to write a note, and I suppose you’ll need to attend the funeral.”
“Yes. Yes. Blast, I—” he could not even finish a thought. William’s house would be overrun with the transition of the earldom and arrangements for the funeral. That meant he’d help his friend more by staying away, despite wanting to check on him. A note, Belle had said. As though it was that easy to find words. And it was Friday already. The funeral was tomorrow.
