There were no more walks in the park with Aunt Lottie because Lord Kenebruke no longer appeared. The first time was shrugged off. But by the third occurrence, Aurora’s heart had broken watching Aunt Lottie’s tiny form on the bench, pretending to read. A note had been sent to Kenebruke, inquiring after his health, but received no reply. Nor did Kenebruke call again at Emerson House. The longer Kenebruke remained absent, the more quiet and distraught Aunt Lottie became.
What could possibly have happened?
“Retrieve me in an hour, Aurora. The sleeping draught should be ready by then. Plenty of time for you to browse and select something wonderful to read. Perhaps something a little scandalous. Go on. I know how you love books.” A hint of smile appeared on Aunt Lottie’s lips, though there were dark shadows beneath her eyes. She’d stopped walking in the park completely. Didn’t sleep well. Ate barely enough to keep a bird alive. Most telling, she refused to discuss Kenebruke with Aurora. Wouldn’t even mention his name. Aurora would have gone to Odessa with her concerns, but her sister-in-law, along with Jordan and little Douglas, had gone to Rivercrest for a few weeks. Only Aunt Lottie and Aurora inhabited Emerson House with Holly guarding them both like a giant mastiff.
If Aunt Lottie’s mood didn’t improve soon, she would write to Odessa.
“Are you sure?” Aurora looked at the apothecary shop, nose wrinkling as something pungent escaped. She didn’t want to abandon Aunt Lottie, especially when the older woman was clearly not herself. “I don’t wish to leave you alone,” she finally said.
“I have been alone a long time, Aurora.” Deep sadness laced her words. “I can endure an hour at the apothecary.”
“But—”
“Go,” Aunt Lottie insisted.
“I won’t be gone long. I promise.” Aurora took the older woman’s fingers before releasing Aunt Lottie’s hand for the short walk to Tate’s. The Emerson carriage was parked between the two shops, driver and footman waiting should she or Aunt Lottie require any assistance.
A hint of citrus floated through the air toward her from a passing gentleman making the breath catch in her throat. He smelled like Worth. Likely used the same shaving soap. Aurora’s chest constricted. She’d done an excellent job of keeping him from her thoughts since she’d returnedThe Bloom of the Rose. Worth hadn’t called at Emerson House, not that she’d expected him to. At the theater a few days ago, Aurora had caught the briefest glimpse of him sitting beside Lady Duggins in one of the private boxes. The widow’s entire form was tilted toward Worth as she whispered something in his ear.
Aurora straightened her spine and walked confidently into Tate’s.
At first, the anger and hurt that Worth had let her go so easily without so much as a protest had Aurora moping about. She wanted to believe his dislike of Healey was jealousy, but his mood wasn’t about her at all. Merely business with Kenebruke.
In all fairness, Worth had done exactly as Aurora asked. She’d demanded he demonstrate pleasure and satisfy her curiosity, which he had. No other promises were made. Aurora wanted to believe she and Worth would remain friends.
Friends. Could she honestly just remain a distant familial acquaintance of Charles Worthington?
Thank goodness she’d returned that bloody book before anyone saw her reading it.The Bloom of the Rose. What a ridiculous name for an erotic book.
Where had Worth found such a thing? Certainly not Tate’s. Although she supposed, given his reputation, he could have picked it up anywhere. Oddly enough the shelves of his study and drawing room weren’t filled with anything remotely erotic in nature. For a supposed rake, Worth had a rather boring collection of books. Crop rotation. Shipping routes. Geological surveys. Scores of pamphlets on financial matters and banking, none of which looked the least appealing. Worth’s reading material was so varied that if a random stranger peeked at the shelves, they’d have no idea what he was really interested in. But Aurora supposed that was what made Worth so good at identifying investments. Hester, Drew’s wife, once said that Worth surprised her by relating a string of facts about honeybees and the profitability of keeping hives. He’d made several suggestions to improve the selling of her honey, all of which she’d taken.
“Drat,” she whispered entering Tate’s. Here she was, once more obsessing over Worth instead of other, more pertinent matters. What had occurred between Aunt Lottie and Lord Kenebruke for one. It was only that Aurora missed him, far more than she wished.
“I merely need an excellent book to take my attention from Worth. Something with no hint of romance or physical relations.”
Worth on his knees, his mouth between her thighs flashed before her eyes. Aurora halted, took a deep breath, and forced her feet forward.
“A travel book,” she hissed under her breath. “Or perhaps something on deportment. That should help me sleep if nothing else.”
Aurora tried to envision sitting on Grisham’s lap. Or Healey’s. But could not. That was rather the problem, wasn’t it? The idea of doing any of the acts described inThe Bloom of the Rosewith either gentleman left Aurora cold. She only wanted to do those things with…Worth.
Stop thinking about him.
Healey confessed a great deal of affection for her, Grisham less so. But both gentlemen were far better for her than Worth. She must give them a chance. She wasn’t trying hard enough.
Sliding down one aisle, Aurora’s skirts whispered along the crowded shelves as she trailed a finger over the leather-clad spines, still attempting to force Worth from her thoughts. Incredibly difficult. Missing him had become something of a daily habit, one Aurora struggled to break. Inhaling the scent of leather, paper, and ink, she smiled at the neat rows of books.
Such extravagance. Books.
When one struggled to find enough to eat, books were a great luxury. Dunnings had been devoid of even the smallest comfort. The Sinclairs barely had enough money to purchase enough coal to see them through the winter, let alone stock a library.
Ironic, considering Dunnings sat on an enormous deposit of coal.
Knowing Aurora’s love of reading, Jordan would scrape together what little extra coin he could, whatever was left after selling a pig or if he’d won a fight at the tavern in Spittal, just so he could buy some battered novel for her from a passing peddler.She’d cried each time Jordan presented her with a tattered book, clasping it to her chest in absolute joy.
Aurora still had each one of the books Jordan had purchased for her, refusing to leave them at Dunnings when the Sinclairs returned to London. She cherished each one, no matter how stained the pages or how moth-eaten the covers.
“Lady Aurora.”
