As soon as the funeral arrangements could be made, he would bury his sire, check with the steward of his father’s estate to ensure that everything was in order, then make his way back to London. There was no point in him lingering at the house.
In time, he would sell the place and leave with no regrets. It had long ago lost any promise of ever feeling like home to him.
As Harry put his arm around his wife, and they moved away, Stephen caught the baffled look on Alice’s face. Of course, she couldn’t understand how he felt. His lack of grief was so foreign to her view of the world. A person had to have held something and known it was theirs in order to experience the pain of loss. For Stephen, that hadn’t ever been the case.
How can you mourn for something you’ve never had?
Chapter Two
“Why does having to heat a house cost so much?” muttered Lady Bridget Dyson. She was sure that every time she saw a new bill from the coal merchant, the price had gone up. At least her late husband, Rupert, god rest his soul, had left her with enough of an annual income to meet these sorts of expenses.
For once, he did something right by me.
She set the invoice aside and turned to gaze out the sitting-room window. The Dyson house, number 12 Berkeley Square, sat just past the corner of Bruton Street, facing onto the lush green of the square. On days like this, when she considered what had become of her life, Bridget liked to imagine she was a young girl once more, perched high up in the branches of one of the imposing plane trees. A happy child without a care in the world.
“Instead, I am working my way through dull household accounts.”
Yes, but you are venturing back into society this evening. And you are planning on wearing that gorgeous silver and gold silk gown.
It was odd to be thinking of colors once more. But she had done her time in donning the drab black of a widow, making certain she respected the memory of Rupert. She had been most scrupulous in observing society’s expectations as to her manner of dress and conduct. In her time of mourning, she had been careful not to put a foot wrong.
The fact that she and Rupert’s marriage had been an utter disaster was neither here nor there. Appearances were what counted.
Rupert had been dead for a year; her sentence as his wife and grieving widow was now over. It was Bridget’s time to move on—to begin to shape and rebuild her life into one of her own choosing and maybe even find happiness.
A tall fair-haired gentleman passed by on the opposite side of the street. Bridget leaned closer to get a better look.
Well-dressed. I like the cut of his coat. I wonder if he likes to dance.
Stepping back into society was something she was looking forward to; it would make a welcome change from the mind-numbing quiet of her recent existence.
Perhaps I could take a lover. I am a widow. It is quite acceptable.
She smiled at the thought. Polite society was always prepared to turn a blind eye to those sorts of liaisons as long as they were conducted discretely.
And thanks to Rupert spreading a spiteful rumor about her, Bridget’s reputation as theBarren Baronesswould no doubt guarantee that there would be plenty of gentlemen willing to share her bed. A young, unattached woman able to indulge in a sexual relationship without the risk of pregnancy would be perfect in the eyes of many a man.
A rap on the sitting room door roused Bridget from her musings. Her attention shifted from the window to her brother, Tristan, as he marched into the room.
“Hello. I wasn’t expecting you,” she said.
And you were not announced. I must have a word with the butler.
She rose, moving out from behind the desk. Her normally cheerful sibling wore an expression of dark worry. But before she had a chance to ask what was wrong, Tristan had spun on his heel and headed back to the door.
He closed it firmly behind him and turned the key in the lock. “My apologies for the sudden visit. As you and I were meant to be going to the opera tonight, I hadn’t planned on coming over this morning, but something has come up. Something which cannot wait.”
Dread suddenly gripped her. “Is it Papa?”
Earl Linton had not been a well man for a number of years. Bridget had fully expected to bury her father long before she had to say farewell to her strapping and fit husband. But she had learned that life had a strange way of turning out, of throwing up unexpected and unwelcome surprises.
Tristan shook his head. “No. It’s Mama.”
Mama?
“She has been at it again.”
Bridget winced, knowing exactly whatitmeant. The countess loved to play card games; cribbage was her favorite. She was an expert at the game and loved to win.
