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Chapter 7
After dinner ended,Aunt Margarette stood and led the women into the drawing room. Alice walked last in line, her mood having not lifted all through dinner despite the delightful mutton and cooked carrots.
More now than at any time she could remember, Alice wished for a friend.
Someone of her same status and nearly her same age. Someone to whom she could speak of her life experiences and have him understand, for his were not so very different. Alice’s steps slowed and she rubbed one arm with a hand. It seemed Joseph’s constant asking for a papa was finally rubbing off on her.
She wanted a husband.
Alice shut her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and slowly pushed it out. Now that dinner was over, she only needed to stay a little past the time when the gentlemen joined the ladies and then she could excuse herself without appearing overly anxious to depart. She opened her eyes once more and realized she’d stopped in her tracks, the other ladies having disappeared into a room just down the corridor and off to her left.
Alice pinched her lips to the side; did she really have to go in just now? She hadn’t anything against the other women here tonight. The misses Dowding were everything sweet and demure. Mrs. Turner and her daughter were a bit more talkative but also very kind. Aunt Margarette was witty and vivacious, no matter that her age seemed determined to make itself known whenever she stood, sat, or generally moved too much.
Still, Alice couldn’t seem to find it in herself to grow excited over the evening. She was so tired of always being the elegant Lady Nightingale—the widow whose deportment was always graceful, whose conversation was always proper and polite and...boring.
Off to her right was a door left slightly ajar. She pressed a few fingertips to it. The cold, hard wood gave at the light pressure, noiselessly swinging open. Perhaps if she took just a few minutes to herself, a small measure of time with which she might rally her spirits once again.
The room was mostly dark, but the embers of a fire in the hearth lit the space enough that she could move through it without hitting the various chairs and small, circular tables beside them. The room was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on either wall to Alice’s right and left. The wall directly behind her held the large hearth, the wall directly in front of her, tall, curtained windows.
A library, it would seem. She probably could have guessed even if the fire did not cast off enough light, for the whole room smelled of old paper and ink. Alice moved toward a bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines. Vanilla and musk. She reached the end of the row and stood before the first window. The curtain was dark in color, but not enough light reached this corner of the room for her to tell the shade. She wrapped a hand around the thick, velvety fabric and pulled it back.
Cold air, trapped between the window and curtain, cascaded over her, pinching at her cheeks and settling against her neck and chest. It wasn’t snowing now, but the sky was quite overcast. Another good reason to make her excuses early and return home soon.
With any luck, she and Joseph would awake to a white world. Perhaps there would even be enough snow for a snowman. Some of her best childhood memories involved snowmen, or ice skating, or sleigh rides. She hoped, this winter, to share so many of those same memories—
“I have a copy in here.” A deep masculine voice cause Alice to whirl around.
The library door swung open. Two gentlemen stood in the doorway, backlit by the light pouring in from the corridor.
What would they say when they found her in a room she hadn’t been invited into, all alone and in a dark corner? Alice dropped to her knees behind a large, upholstered chair; hopefully she would never have to find out.
* * *
Isaac turned toward the bookshelf where he was certain he’d seenPride and Prejudice.He quickly scanned over the various titles.
“This is excellent,” Parsons said from just behind him. “I knew Miss Turner thoroughly enjoyedSense and Sensibility, but it never occurred to me to ask your aunt if she had another book by the same author.”
Isaac found the book they were seeking and pulled it out. He turned to hand it to his friend and, in the process, noticed a bit of fabric sticking out from behind one of the larger chairs near the back corner. Despite the darkness, which was very deep indeed in the corners of the room, he recognized the fabric immediately. It was the very fabric worn by the individual he’d been trying most to avoid all night, to not glance at every few minutes, to erase from his mind entirely.
What the blazes was Lady Nightingale doing hiding behind a chair in his aunt’s library?
“Is that it?” Parsons reached for the book.
Isaac let him have it. “Yes, the very one.”
“Thank you.” Parsons turned toward the library door, taking long purposeful strides. “This will most certainly brighten Miss Turner’s day.” He paused at the door frame. “Are you not coming?”
Isaac’s gaze jumped back to the small bit of fabric still peeking out from behind the chair. “No, you go ahead. I’m just going to...look over the shelves a bit more and see if there’s anything else Miss Turner might enjoy.”
Parsons threw him a casual salute and disappeared into the corridor.
Isaac took a step toward Lady Nightingale. Then a second one. For the life of him, he couldn’t fathom why she was in here, and hiding, moreover. Every encounter he’d had with the widow proved her to be quite refined and a strict follower of social conventions. She was polite to everyone at all times. Her words were always well-spoken, if a bit like she was simply reading from a book handed to her by her governess. And yet, when he looked into her eyes, he could see there was far more going on inside her head than she ever let show. Isaac pitied the man who allowed himself to be pulled in by her charms, only to learn too late that he’d shackled himself to the most conniving of all women.
Then again, she’d offered his aunt a deep curtsy when they’d met. It wasn’t anything much, but it showed more respect for his aunt than he’d expected to see from her. Lady Nightingale was a countess, a peer in her own right. His aunt was the widow of a gentleman, it was true, but he hadn’t been an overly wealthy man nor a man of much power or high connections. Isaac had half-expected Lady Nightingale to snub the connection to his aunt. Instead, she’d treated his aunt with the same respect she gave everyone.
He stopped directly in front of her, then slowly turned and looked down at Lady Nightingale. She would probably lift her chin and excuse herself with no explanation at all. Either that, or she would call him a cad for instigating a situation where they were together, alone, in a room with no chaperone. Either way, he was ready. He wouldn’t let her manipulate this situation to her benefit; he wouldn’t let her bat her beautiful eyelashes and expect all to be forgiven and forgotten.
Not that stepping into the library uninvited was all that bad, but it was inconsiderate. And after his aunt had treated her so kindly.
