Page 4 of If a Lady Lingers

“I want it to be a grand place, safe and welcoming.” Resting the tea on his knee, he leaned forward, and his eyes practically glowed. “For the boys and me. A house where they can adjust to their futures and where I can live instead of renting bachelor’s rooms. You know…a home.” He helped himself to one of the lemon biscuits from the tea tray. “If it works, I’m hoping to build a second house for the girls, perhaps on the same square. Wouldn’t that be grand to have them all together so close? Your father would design it, too, of course.”

She couldn’t breathe at the implication behind that. A second commission! She cleared her throat and brought them both back down to earth by saying, “Building two houses is going to be quite expensive for a charity school.”

“True, but I recently came into money.” He took a bite of the biscuit and said through the crunching, “My late uncle William.” He snapped off another bite between his front teeth. “Had no children of his own. Always liked me a great deal, though. Better than all my brothers.” He popped the last bite into his mouth. “Irked my father, too, I daresay.”

“Your father?”

He somehow managed to nod while taking a sip of tea. “Baron Whitby.”

Her arm jerked in surprise, and she nearly spilled tea on herself. He was abaron’sson?

“But I assure you that my father has nothing to do with this. It’s all my idea.” He reached for a cucumber sandwich and added, “And Mariah’s, of course.”

She smiled tightly. “Ah…your wife.”

“Mariah?” He snorted laughter at the idea. “Heavens no! She’s married to Lord Robert Carlisle. But she’s my best friend and helps me run Gatewell. The school was her idea, in fact, but she lets me help.” He grinned sheepishly. “But I’m keeping her away from the new house. I want this project to be all mine. She knows I’m building it, of course—couldn’t keep something like that secret from her prying—but I want to surprise her with how grand it will be, how perfect for the children.” He took a bite of the sandwich, then gestured wide with his long arms and said between chews, “I want a townhouse that’s bright and light, with big rooms, lots of windows—nice rooms for the servants, too. I want everyone to feel as if it’s their home, not just an extension of the school or the place they work.”

She jotted down his wish list, then read back over it. Her heart pounded at the possibilities. “Your uncle left you money, you said?”

“A great deal of money.” He grinned at her hesitation. “No expense spared!” Then he popped the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and somehow managed to keep smiling even as he devoured it, only to frown during the last few bites. “But all the corner lots were already leased. Mine is part of the middle terrace which limits what your father can do with it, I suppose.” Then his expression turned downright grim, and he heaved out a heavy sigh. “I’m giving him a difficult challenge.”

One Daisy relished! This would be her chance to finally make real the ideas she’d been mulling over for some time now, ideas that would break away from the tyranny of the terrace box. Excitement pricked at her toes.

“Actually,” she ventured as she slowly set her cup aside, not wanting him to sense her enthusiasm for his project, “I can suggest some ideas that I think you might like.”

Before he could rise to his feet again, she’d moved around the tea table to the settee, and her hand went to his arm to keep him seated. She ignored the surprised look that fluttered across his face, opened her book, and flipped to the pages she’d been working on. They held all her ideas for transforming a boring London terrace house into something grand, bright, and airy while maintaining the same narrow frontage and typical five bays.

“The main difficulty with terrace houses is the lighting, of course,” she explained as she rested the book between them so he could see her plans. “How do builders construct on a large scale when a house can only be two rooms deep because they can’t place any windows on either side? So architects have compensated for narrow lots by building up. But that’s limited to how many sets of stairs the owner wants to climb, usually only allowing for three stories, with perhaps an additional room in an attic and a basement for the kitchens. On a square like yours, the architect and builder are further limited because the owner won’t let you build higher than the houses next to yours.” She sighed at the rules of Neo-Classicism which seemed as if they’d never die out. It was the nineteenth century, for heaven’s sake! “Because of symmetry.”

He leaned toward her to peer into her book, and she caught the faint scent of bergamot. It was surprisingly nice.

“All the terrace houses I’ve ever seen have been like that,” he said.

“But they don’t have to be. Look here.” She tapped her finger on a sketch. “Instead of stacking the rooms on top of each other in a two-room deep square, they can spread behind the house in an L-shape like this, giving each room plenty of light. Depending on how deep your lot is, you can add an extra room per floor by doing this.” She flipped the page. “Or this—change the shape from anLto aU, eliminating the rear service yard for a central courtyard. Once you let go of traditional thinking about what a townhouse should be, the possibilities become—”

“Endless!”

She laughed. “I was going to say exciting.”

He grinned at her. “That, too.” He took the book and looked carefully at her sketches, then turned the page before she could stop him. “What’s this?”

Her heart skipped. It was her dream house. The set of original ideas she’d jotted down one boring rainy afternoon last year when she’d let her mind run wild with possibilities.

“Nothing important.” She reached for the book. “Just some silly ideas.”

But he refused to let her take the book from him. “These are yours?” He let out a low whistle as he flipped through the pages. “Deuces, they’re grand!”

“But they’re not for a townhouse like yours.” Her face flushed with equal measure embarrassment and pride. “Not really.”

She made another grab for the book, which he deftly moved out of her reach.

“Tell me about them.” His eyes shone earnestly. “Please do. I’d love to hear about what inspired you.”

She bit her lip in indecision even as her heart somersaulted at the temptation. No one had ever asked to see her house plans before, not even her father.

Until now.

That it was Mr. Whitby who was the first, this very odd client of all people, surprised the daylights out of her. Yet he was serious about her work. That is, as serious as a man dressed like a fruit salad could be, she supposed.