13
DIAMONDS AND FLOWERS. BOTH LIVE FOREVER IN THE HEART
Number Six Grosvenor Square, within the parish of Saint George’s, had an opulent air with Doric columns of Portland stone and a lion knocker growling from the black-painted door.
Miles supposed a mere army captain would customarily have been sent to the servants’ entrance but his new aristocratic title did have the advantage of opening doors.
And this one swung open to reveal an immaculately presented butler.
“The name is Stonewold. I believe the duke is expecting me.”
“Indeed, my lord. If you will come this way.”
Miles glanced over his shoulder and signalled Lynch to trundle the closed carriage around the square before he twisted back and stepped forth. The interior was equally opulent, if not a little dark with a wood-panelled hall and various doors.
“If you could just wait for a moment in the library, my lord?”
“Certainly.”
And one of those doors led to a book-filled room, the scent of beeswax polish and leather bindings twitching Miles’ nostrils.
Since the fair three days past, he’d spent a goodly amount of time with Lynch, comparing the mishaps and looking for commonalities. But to little avail. The straps on the ale cart at the fair he had checked for himself and though well-used, he was unable to say whether they had torn by chance or design.
But this misfortune of his was not abating.
So, as of this morn, Lynch would watch and trail Cecil Webb whenever he left his lodgings.
Furthermore, after counting up the hospitals in London where Jacob Webster could potentially be and reaching double figures, he’d dispatched a message to that gambling hell owner known as the Prince. The surly knave had, after all, offered that if Miles ever needed more, then to send word, although doubtless it was to place Miles further in the reprobate’s debt.
So naught more to do but wait, which suited him not at all and caused a considerable ill temper. He paced to a bookshelf to peer at spines and noticed quite a few copies of theBotanical Magazinebound in leather. A popular subscription service, it contained a narrative on native and newly introduced plant and flower species aside exquisite illustrations of them.
How Verity had delighted in drawing flowers in this manner – an exact replication on paper.
Why had she ceased?
And why paint cats?
He frowned, recalling their kiss at the fair.
Hell, it had set him afire, her body pressed so flush against his that he’d felt her everywhere, under his skin and in his veins, and he should’ve resisted but…
She’d wriggled, her shifting hips and brushing breasts a torture too far.
And with an irksome lack of self-restraint, he’d kissed her.
It had always been thus.
As a youth, it had taken a dip in the lake to bring his unruly impulses to heel, but at the fair, passion had let loose. A kiss so rough and needy that, as a gentleman, he knew an apology was required.
She was also hiding something; he was sure of it.
The young prideful cub that lingered somewhere within him was doubtless yelling in frustration: that she’d broken his callow heart in two. What did it matter determining her secrets? He needed to cease this absurd dalliance as the weighty matters of earl, which included securing a capable wife and more capable stewards, could not be ignored indefinitely. The pressure was palpable.
Yet…
His curiosity had awoken.
Like why she’d responded so fervently if she felt naught?
