Page 6 of How to Wed a Courtesan

‘Not at all.’ A wistful smile touched her lips with such sweet joy he felt a mirror reaction pull at his own mouth.

‘They remind me of home. I have carnations planted under my window that bid me good morning every day.’ She ran her fingertip over the waxy yellow petal of a daffodil. ‘Your regard.’ She touched the pink carnation next. ‘And your affection.’

A pretty flush of colour touched her cheeks and she kept her eyes demurely fixed on the flowers, before looking up at him with a boldness that struck him in the most delightful way.

‘I can think of no bouquet more perfect.’

A servant entered then, and took the flowers from her to put them in a vase. In that moment he was grateful for his choice of floral arrangement and the way it made her shine. Most women of the ton would regard his choice with an upturned nose. But not Miss Rossington. She was as pure and gracious as she was beautiful. A woman who made him long to shower her with gifts and affection.

There was no one quite like her, and he swore that despite his imminent departure he would find some way to put himself in her path once more.

Chapter Three

April 1810, Binsey, Oxfordshire, England

Rain pattered against the windowpanes, the droplets melting into one another before trickling down in fat wet trails against the glass. Lottie looked outside to the slick cobblestones, wishing she’d heeded her father’s warning to bring an umbrella. Or at least take the carriage.

‘It’s coming down something fierce.’ The shopkeeper of Notions, the local haberdashery, narrowed her brown eyes behind her spectacles, looking at the whipping rain. ‘If you wait until three, Mr Williams will be about and can see you home.’

A swift glance at the clock on the side table indicated to Lottie that it was only just now half past two. Back home, there was still a button to reattach to Father’s favourite jacket, some tidying up to do and dinner to be made.

‘Thank you, Mrs Williams,’ Lottie said politely. ‘But a bit of rain isn’t anything I can’t handle.’

Mrs Williams withdrew some more paper, this one shiny with wax, and bound it round the length of lace she’d just wrapped. ‘I know, you need to be returning to your father. It’s a shame he never sought to remarry. You know, the miller’s eldest daughter is looking for a husband.’

Lottie accepted the parcel from the woman and thanked her—not for the marital suggestion for her father, a woman two years younger than Lottie, but for putting the lace in a waxed wrap so it wouldn’t be soaked by the rain.

‘Are you sure you won’t wait?’ Mrs Williams asked with a slight frown.

‘It’s truly fine.’

Lottie thanked her for her consideration and slipped out of the shop into the deluge of driving rain. The chill of the downpour was enough to rob her of her breath. To think that morning it had been warm as she’d walked into the heart of the village to purchase some lace for a gown.

She angled her head so that her straw hat kept her from being pelted in the face. Not that it did much good.

All at once a shadow appeared and the rain came to an abrupt end. She looked up to find an umbrella open over her head.

Someone had come to her rescue. Most likely Mr Williams, returned early from his tasks.

‘Mr Williams, that is—’

Whatever else she might have said died on her tongue as she turned her head and realised her saviour was not, in fact, Mr Williams at all.

No, this man was taller, but just as familiar.

Lord Murray.

He grinned down at her, his green eyes bright against the dull grey sky. ‘Miss Rossington,’ He spoke loudly to be heard over the rush of rain, which was now drenching him as he held the umbrella for her. ‘Please allow me to drive you home.’

‘You’re getting all wet,’ she exclaimed.

And he was—truly. His auburn hair had gone dark with a thorough soaking.

He indicated the carriage parked only a few feet away.

Rather than argue, she allowed him to guide her towards the carriage and scrambled inside with as much decorum as anyone could muster when attempting to flee a deluge. He joined her on the opposite seat and snapped the umbrella closed, keeping it tucked into the corner opposite her. Not that any additional drops from its surface would matter when she was already in such a sorry state.

Her fingers went self-consciously to her hat, which felt to be wilting over her face. Embarrassment scorched her cheeks and made her cast her gaze to where her hands were clasped in her lap.