*
Noah took Dociaby the arm and hauled her down the corridor to another hall as far from the Blue Suite as he could get. He opened the door to the Yellow Suite and peered in. There were bags on the floor and he quickly backed out. There was no other option; he dragged her to the East Tower, where they could talk without being overheard. Unfortunately, all of his ancestors would be there to witness this ridiculous scene.
Docia jerked her arm from him. “There is no call for brute force! You know? I don’t believe we shall suit one another for marriage, after all.”
Something with which he wholeheartedly agreed. The relief rushing through him was monumental. “All right,” he said slowly. “Why the change of heart? You’ve been badgering me for months.”
“I’ve seen how you look at that… thatwoman.”
This was not a conversation he was prepared for, and certainly not with Docia. With a mental step back, he studied her elfin face—the delicately proportioned features, the small, upturned nose, and high, well-defined cheekbones. The blue eyes were reminiscent of someone else’s he preferred not thinking of in this moment. But one couldn’t deny Docia’s attractiveness with another of her brightly-colored frocks that was likely French. Whether it was the latest fashion or not, he couldn’t say.
When Noah considered their past, his brain had apparently been absent. He should have remembered the two of them had never been true friends. How they had clashed at the onset. Docia had announced at the age of eleven her intentions of marrying Lucius.
From the time they’d been children, she’d been enamored with, obsessed with, all that was proper, including behavior, but she’d never been quite able to quash that self-serving side of her personality. In the right mood, it could be engaging. In the wrong mood, it was downright irritating. The whole family felt sorry for her, he supposed. Her father had gone to London one weekend and had never returned.
So, Verda and Sander had welcomed her into the Oshea fold.
Currently, her eyes were narrowed on him, her arms folded over her chest with her nose in the air. “I’ll reserve judgment for the time being, however.”
He let out an impatient breath. “Oh, for God’s sake.”
She strolled over to him and touched his arm.
The move surprised him.
She frowned. “I don’t know how I feel about Miss Wimbley. I’m almost certain she is not for you. Perhaps you could take her as a mistress.” Her hand fell away. “With discretion, of course.”
And just like that, every hackle raised the hair on his skin. “I’ll be sure to let you know if she accepts my proposal,” he bit out, his insides trembling with outrage.
She turned on her fashionable heels, their clicks echoing against the chamber walls. He glanced up at his father’s portrait. The resemblance between Lucius, Noah, and their father didn’t jump out to Noah. The artist had captured his father’s weak chin and pouting lips. There was also a bleakness in his eyes that Noah had seen in Lucius’s since his marriage to Lady Meredith. Still, that did not mean Docia was for his brother. Which was certainly an impossibility besides.
The previous Earl of Pender’s lips seemed to twist in the mocking smirk that Noah had experienced his entire life. He was half-afraid he’d see that same expression on his father’s face even as the coffin box was being nailed shut.
God, Noah’s morbidity knew no bounds. Too much time in his laboratory and working with bones, he supposed. He blew out a deep breath, scowled at his father, and strode from the East Tower. He needed to speak with Lucius. Docia would drive him into an early grave and Noah wanted to warn him. She was up to something, and it did not bode well. Her schemes never had.
Chapter Eight
Miss Isabelle twistedback and forth with her hands at her back, a delicate chain against her neck reflecting the lighting. “I don’t know why everyone keeps calling this the Blue Suite,” she informed Geneva and Abra. “I renamed each to something, um, more enchanting.”
“Ah, enchanting. What did you name this one?” Geneva asked her. The girl was truly a delight.
“Morpho.”
Geneva met Abra’s eyes before turning back to Miss Isabelle. “I…” She had no idea whatMorphomeant.
“I’ve seen pictures. We have a most extensive library, you know.” Miss Isabelle limped over to one of the lower paintings and straightened it, stood back to gauge her work, then adjusted it again.
Geneva was at a loss.
“I believe it is an interesting and extremely beautiful butterfly,” Abra said.
Geneva’s mouth dropped.
Miss Isabelle spun quickly around and Geneva’s heart nearly lopped from her chest, fearing the girl would lose her balance. She didn’t. “Yes!” She clapped her hands together. “They are quite famous for their blue wings. They shimmer,” she said with a dreamy smile. “I think they are mostly found in an enchanted forest.”
“Morpho…” Geneva repeated. “It doesn’t sound like a—” There she went again, nearly blurting out how unappealing the name sounded for something that belonged in an enchanted forest. “Like a species one would find near Scotland,” she finished weakly.
Miss Isabelle’s nose wrinkled. “You are right, of course. They are mostly found in South America. The Amazon, I suppose. It’s much warmer there.”
