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He pressed the wrought iron until the edges bit into his palm. Besides his own bedchamber, there were seven others, not counting the servants’. He used to think of them simply as unneeded; today, they felt empty.
No reason to feel lonely. This is yours,and you belong here.
James had almost rejected this property in Belgravia. It was far too fashionable, and he preferred not to live surrounded by aristocrats. Ultimately, though, it was his kinship to the neighborhood’s history that compelled him to buy there.
Only decades before, it had been an undeveloped patchwork of swamp and land for grazing sheep. The visionary architect Thomas Cubitt transformed it, as famous for his impeccable ethics and commercial management skills as his grand style. His firm constructed Saint Katharine’s Docks in east London and filled in this land with material excavated from the docks project.
BothJames and the neighborhood were raised from nothing—and he had as much right to be here as any noble.
All this,yet I don’t have what I want,came the dark thought.
What do I want?
Whom, he corrected immediately.I wanther.
“I knew you needed a dram,” Chavers called down the street.
James turned without hiding his scowl. The bottle of fine Islay whisky in Chavers’ grip didn’t soften his expression. “I’m poor company,” he warned.
“You don’t say.”
Lips flattening, James turned on his heel and resumed the short walk to his front door. Chavers chuckled when James swore upon finding his door locked. He pulled the bell with restraint, but tapped his boot impatiently.
The butler, Pulley, appeared quickly and without evidencing surprise, despite his unexpected mid-day arrival and a guest with a bottle in tow.
After shedding his coat, James led Chavers to the study, abandoning him to pour their whisky while he stared out the window.
Chavers handed him the drink. “What is it?”
James accepted the glass but simply held it. He leaned his forehead against the side of the bookshelves that extended floor-to-ceiling from the window to the next wall. The scent of wood and lemon oil surrounded him as he rapped his head lightly.
“I know I need to pull my head out of the clouds—at least long enough to decide whether to call a special wool sale, or process thousands of bales.”
“You will. But that’s not what’s weighing on you.”
James shook his head.
“Is it the Rosemount affair?”
“No.”
“For three days now, I’ve bitten my tongue. No more, Robertson. Not when I’ve never seen you quite like this. What is it?”
Resigned, James sipped his whisky before answering. Like a lit fuse, it burned down his throat into his belly. “I’ve made a fool of myself.”
Chavers’ blue eyes narrowed appraisingly. “A woman?” he asked. At James’s curt nod, surprise widened his eyes for several seconds, then the surrounding skin crinkled as a slow smile spread. “I told you this would happen.”
“No, you don’t understand. Not only is she an unwise choice, she upended me in a smacking defeat. No, don’t smile, damn it, it’s not amusing!”
“How is she not a wise choice?”
Frustrated, James pushed off the bookcase and set the unwanted whisky on his desk. “Choice is the wrong word. I didn’t choose to meet her. I didn’t choose to…react to her. It just happened.”
“With someone unwise.”
Unwise in every respect,he nearly answered, but the words stalled. Clara felt right in every respect. “Shethinks thatI’man unwise choice. Unsuitable. Unacceptable.”
Chavers frowned. “I see. So it’s a question of mismatched interest.”
