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And The Dissolution of Ara.
No matter. It was all done now. Whatever Lady Rawdon did with the paintings was between her and the marchioness, though what little Ara knew of Margot told her that she’d never put herself on such display for all the fame and fortune in the world. It went against the very grain of who she was…or perhaps who she thought she was. Maybe they would be hidden away in an attic somewhere.
Ara squinted at the clock in the corner of her apartments. Lady Rawdon had said her personal carriage would be coming by at seven o’clock. Could Ara hide? Simply not answer the door? Pretend to be ill? There were so many possibilities. And yet her bleeding heart couldn’t go through with any of them. She was never very good at disappointing people.
When the coach eventually arrived and the driver knocked on the door, she put on her cloak without complaint and went.
“Do you know where we are going?” she asked when the driver helped her inside the fancy interior.
He grinned and touched his hat. “The countess said it was a surprise, Miss.”
Of course she had. Ara looked around, taking in the plush velvet seats with their embroidered edges. Gold accents adorned the corners and the entire interior screamed of luxury. Lady Rawdon certainly wasn’t hurting for money. No doubt Lady Waverly was just as privileged, considering the two shared similar circles. Ara wondered if their paths might cross, but then shook her head. The marchioness had made her position and priorities quite clear.
Don’t think about her.
She wouldn’t. Not tonight, if she could help it.
Surely this tedious pining would not last forever? One could hope. Ara closed her eyes and made her mind blank until the carriage came to a stop. When the coach door opened and she descended, she recognized the bustling area of Piccadilly and her eyes went to the name of the street in curiosity, New Bond Street.
There were many newer hotels and social rooms about, all upscale given their proximity to Mayfair. Perhaps the party was in one of them. But the coachman offered his arm, and they strolled past several buildings until they came to a shopfront made entirely of glass that was lit from within by colorful lamps. Ara blinked, taking in the details and the name. It was a gallery…an art gallery, to be precise.
And Lady Rawdon stood at the doors, preening like a cat with a full bowl of cream. “Finally! My guest of honor has arrived!”
In a state of disbelief, Ara climbed the steps and entered the large foyer to a thunderous round of cheers and well wishes for her birthday. Some of the faces she recognized—other artists, two of her tenants, a few actors and actresses from the neighboring theater and opera house—including Sandrine, who’d fed her when she’d been too distraught to remember to eat and had turned out to be quite a dependable friend once she realized Ara wasn’t remotely interested in reconciliation.
Others Ara didn’t recognize, though she expected they were friends of Lady Rawdon’s. One gentleman in particular, a tall, vaguely familiar looking young man with dark hair, couldn’t stop beaming at her.
How odd.
But then Lady Rawdon clapped her hands, gave a signal and the gaslights went out, much to the delighted whispers of everyone. Ara swung around when a single flickering flame appeared, a path clearing for the person carrying a round cake with a slender candle at its center. But Ara couldn’t care less about the cake or the candle when the person bearing the tray in the flickering light was Margot.
Ara’s throat dried, her heart kicking wildly in her chest, but she steeled herself. The Marchioness of Waverly was Lady Rawdon’s best friend. That was why she was here…certainly not for Ara, even if she ached ever so hopelessly for it to be so. Desperate eyes drank in the sight of her, an impossible knot forming in her throat when Margot stopped inches away and placed the cake on a nearby table.
“Happy birthday,” she said in that low husky rasp that never failed to make Ara’s knees go weak. “Blow out the candle and make a wish.”
Ara was bereft of wishes, but she did it anyway.
When the gallery descended into darkness, the scent of gardenias burned through her senses and the softest pair of lips collided with hers in a kiss so tender that Ara felt it in her bones. Margot? Astonishment was followed by a flood of desire as Ara moaned and the slightest parting of her lips on the sound paved the way for a sleek, warm tongue to lick shyly into her mouth. That one honeyed taste was all it took.
“Margot…” she panted against that soft, soft, willing mouth.
“Ara.”
Within a heartbeat, the kiss went from cautious to heated as Ara slanted her head and sucked Margot’s full bottom lip between her teeth. The sweetest answering whimper was her reward. They didn’t have much time, Ara knew, before the lights came back on, so she made the most of every blissful second, reveling in the sensual dance of Margot’s tongue against hers and the kiss that carried a thousand unsaid words.
And then the gas sizzled and a scant moment before the lights came back on, they broke apart, Margot’s lips swollen and eyes so bright they glittered like stars.
“Your eyes are blue,” Ara whispered.
Margot nodded, her heart in them. “Sometimes, they turn that color when I’m happy.”
Chapter Five
“Now we get to the good stuff,” Honoria crowed, her gaze much too knowing as though she could guess exactly what had happened in those fraught seconds that had felt like infinity to Margot. Because heavens above, she’d kissed Ara.
In a roomful of people, albeit in the dark.
And it had felt good. So good.
