He stood and she did, too, smoothing her skirts as she rounded her desk. “We’ll make it just in time, I believe.” She snapped open her own pocket watch. Exactly like his. He hated it now. He wanted to give her a new one. With a more delicate chain and some pretty design across the top. A Scottish flower engraved there, perhaps, or the waves of the ocean where she’d first kissed him. He wanted the damn thing to be pink of all colors.
They strode out of the art school side by side, identical strides.
She pulled a hand out of her gray muff and handed something to him. “You forgot these.”
He looked down and grabbed his own gloves with his bare hands. “Many thanks.” He stuffed them in his pocket.
“You’re not going to put them on?”
He shrugged. He’d begun to like the feel of not wearing them. He’d never realized how restricting they were before, how they’d kept him from feeling the air, the texture of his own clothes, the beaten satin of an old desk.
“Your hands will get cold.”
He shrugged again.
She stopped, put an arm out to stop him, and stole the gloves from his pocket. “Let me, you stubborn man.”
Then,finally, she was touching again. Her hands warm against his cold ones, tugging each of the fingers individuallyinto place until they were perfectly situated. He closed his eyes and focused only on her touch, put it to memory. No silhouettes for that.
When done, she shook her head and marched forward once more. “We’ll be late.”
He caught up with her, trying to tame his mind to the task at hand—discovering what Beggsly wanted for the Aster Square townhouses. They did so under the guise of viewing new addresses, new options. But Drew had not given up hope.
He flashed a glance at the woman at his side.
She wanted Aster Square, and she’d have it.
Their walk did not take long, and when they stood outside the first of the Aster Square town houses, Beggsly was already waiting.
“We apologize for our lack of punctuality,” Mrs. Dart said, each word clipped and precise.
Beggsly shook his head, his lips a grim line beneath his mustache. “I still can’t understand why you insist on meeting here. It’s gone, Mrs. Dart. Lord Andrew, you should not entertain her fantastical notions. You must convince your employee that she cannot have everything she likes. Mr. Tidsdale will soon occupy this house and the other.”
Her jaw clenched. Beggsly had talked over her head, and inside the gray fur muff, her hands likely clenched into unhappy fists. Drew stepped back, giving her space to fight her own battle. “You must speak to her about it. I trust Mrs. Dart’snotionsimplicitly.”
“Let us view the other houses once more.” She marched down the street as if she were a queen and they her lowly vassals.
“Yes, right away.” Beggsly ran after her, greatcoat flapping behind him as he clutched his top hat to his head.
Drew followed at a more sedate pace. She’d not spared one glance for him other than to put his gloves on, and even thattouch, greedy as he’d been to have it, had been cold, clinical. Had their interlude meant nothing to her? She was not a petty woman who would stay angry for no reason. He’d hurt her. He used to think Mrs. Dart impervious to arrows and stones of all kinds, a woman made of diamond, unbreakable. But she was also Amelia. He knew that now. Amelia, soft and rosy. She drew silhouettes and had been left behind too many times.
He was not going to leave her behind. Never. No matter he’d drawn her silhouette. It hadn’t been for remembering. It had been for… He stumbled, an invisible force knocking the breath from his lungs. It had not been for remembering. It had been for something else entirely.
He quickened his steps and reached her side just as they stopped before a perfectly respectable townhouse.
“This,” Beggsly said, “is the last of the townhomes available from what I showed you last time. The others have been sold.”
And it was the worst of the lot, as well. “The window is broken,” Drew pointed out.
“Easily fixed!” Beggsly opened the door and let them through. “As you’ll remember, this townhouse is the exact copy of the one next door, which you’ve also expressed interest in. And the entryway is quite cozy. Go where you’d like.”
Drew let his silent secretary lead the way and tried not to stare at her arse lovingly cloaked by her brown pelisse. He failed entirely. It swayed above him on the stairs. He must focus. Today the houses. Tomorrow the clients. After that, Amelia. One thing at a time, and he could not put off the first two, and it would not do to tackle them with the same high emotions he’d allowed himself to fall into in Scotland.
The rooms were all the same—brown and drab and small. Flaking wallpaper, a chill in the air that was likely never quite fixed by roaring fires in the grate. The stairs squeaked. Not only would his governesses and tutors be cramped anduncomfortable, the clients who’d come to interview them would see the shabby surroundings and be reminded of how far these men and women had fallen. The relationship would start out with disdain and fear, not respect. He tried to imagine the wealthiest of clients stepping off that muddy street below and through the doors into this house. He couldn’t. They’d wrinkle their noses and go find Tidsdale.
They walked into the final room at the top of the house, and Drew made his way to the window. It had started to rain. Or was that snow?
“This will serve quite well,” Mrs. Dart said.
