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After all, either her own livelihood or Robert’s depended on it.
Chapter Ten
At Christmas, Anne decided to give herself a gift.
Earlier, she had distributed bolts of cloth to the servants, and presided over a dinner and dance for them with mistletoe strung up on the chandeliers and boughs of pine on the mantels. Snow coated the ground outside, and there was plenty of good cheer inside with roaring fires and mince pies. She had made merry with the staff and enjoyed her share of the milk punch that she suspected the kitchen staff had made stronger than the recipe book recommended.
Bleary-eyed after the late supper and dancing, she stifled a yawn and stole down into the morning room where she worked. It was dark and quiet. A shiver ran up her spine as she remembered the ghost stories that the butler had told earlier with glee. There was sure to be a host of chambermaids giggling and whispering all night with fancies of creaks and groans to entertain them.
Anne set her candle holder on the desk and slid open the top drawer where the stationary was kept. She had been putting off the task for weeks now. She stared down at the blank paper and the black inkwell, waiting for her to fill the page with recriminations.
It seemed out of charity with the season to tell Hawthorne that he couldn’t move back to the estate. But the plan was in action. Not only was his room dismantled, but the entire second floor was in chaos, stuffed with fabrics and furniture. There were a few bedchambers left on the third floor, but none satisfactory enough to suit a duke.
She picked up the pen, and then set it back down. How many times had they danced together when they were young, before they married? Hawthorne would murmur witticisms andon-ditsin her ear, his worldly humor making her laugh for ages after they left the floor. It had not all been bad between them.
Marriage was meant to be a partnership. It was unfortunate that her partner had abandoned the ship so soon. She was long accustomed to doing everything by herself now, but she longed sometimes for a shoulder to lean on. Or a lover to comfort her.
As wealthy as she was, Anne couldn’t afford regret. She had been born the daughter of an earl, and she had ambitions to marry higher, and she had achieved her goals. It was nonsense to cry over what she had sown with such meticulous care. It must be the punch that was making her maudlin. Cook had tipped in the brandy with a generous hand indeed.
Anne focused on every letter of every word, carving her decision in black and white. The duke was not to return, as the estate was in sad state and not ready for guests. She sprinkled sand across the page to soak up the extra ink before blowing it off and folding it into neat fourths. She tipped her candle to splash hot wax across the fold and picked up the heavy Hawthorne seal. For a moment she studied it, studded with rubies and carved with strawberry leaves, then pressed its ornateHinto the wax, grinding it in so that every line would stand stark against the scarlet wax.
She set it aside on top of her other letters as if it were any other business correspondence.
It was difficult to sleep after that. She tossed and turned, her thoughts flipping from Hawthorne’s dark hooded eyes to Miss Barrow’s warm brown ones.
Her desire wasn’t appropriate. Miss Barrow was gently bred, but she worked for her living—and not as something quite respectable, like a governess. Anne had no issues with a woman making her way in the world. In fact, the more she knew about Miss Barrow, the more interested she was.
But she wouldn’t do for alover. It would be difficult enough to find a woman from within thetonto understand her. As rarified asthe lives of nobility were, there was nothing to compare to the rigors and expectations and duties of a duchy, outside the royal family. To even think that a working woman could begin to understand her life seemed like a dream.
Also, there was that disconcerting honesty that Miss Barrow wielded as comfortably as her pencil. Someone who was so calm about disclosing her unmarried state with a grown child would never be as discreet as Anne needed a lover to be. She admired it, after the shock wore off, but it could never be for her. She had been devastated when Hawthorne had left her and started flaunting his lovers from across the Channel. She needed someone who understood discretion. Someone who understood the parameters of her life—strict adherence to Society in the streets, indulgence when concealed within the bedsheets.
It didn’t matter if she ached for Miss Barrow’s touch or wondered what her lips would feel like against hers. She was long accustomed to denying herself, and this would be no different.
There must be someone else that she could consider. All those times she had spent with her eyes peeled for sapphic indiscretions should have netted her a host of names to consider, but all she could think of were several lonely wives and widows who were wintering at their estates.
Who among the denizens of London could warm her through the long cold winter?
Miss Barrow’s mischievous smile came to mind again, and Anne buried her head into her pillow. Maybe she wouldn’t be a suitable lover for the long term. But would it be so risky to give in to temptation while the house was being renovated? Their liaison would be private by its very nature, given that Miss Barrow needed to frequent the house to do her work. No one would ever guess at what else might be going on in the private rooms of Hawthorne House.
The most compelling reason was that Anneyearned.
It wasn’t because it had been years since she had taken a lover to bed. It was because of Miss Barrow’s low sultry voice when she had promised her satisfaction. When she said she would give her what she needed.
Anne twisted in the bed, far too warm.
Could she have what she wanted, if the only thing that stood in her way was being brave enough to take it?
Her decision made, she fell into a fitful sleep.
* * *
Letty drank deeply. “I don’t think I can hide the truth any longer.”
Swann’s Ale Rooms and Eatery was crowded tonight, and she was pressed cheek to jowl in a booth between Fraser and Marcus and across from George and the proprietor, Sam Swann. It was loud tonight, and no one except her friends could hear her even if she shouted. But still she thought it best to be prudent, especially as she had downed two Burton ales already in quick succession and could no longer be sure how loud she was talking under the best of circumstances. Her thigh pressed against Fraser’s, and she threw her arm around his shoulders to wedge herself closer and whisper in his ear. “I fancy her.”
Fraser laughed. “Letty Barrow, you’re no lass to be turned by a duchess.”
“It’s a passing fancy, nothing more. There is no rhyme or reason behind it.”
