“Apart from what you owe your name and position, it’s a waste of money!”
“It’s my money, Grandmama,” he reminded her gently. “In any case, you’re here to wave the family flag, aren’t you? Now, I must be off. I have an appointment with my barber.”
“Barber, indeed! Dandy!” She snorted, and as he bowed over her hand, she muttered something about the youngergeneration and young men who had no respect. But Julian didn’t wait to hear the end of the tirade: he was inured to them.
Live under the same roof as his grandmother? Be on hand for her to watch and constantly criticize? She could rule the roost to her heart’s content, but she wasn’t going to rule him.
He sent for his curricle to be brought around from the mews and called for his dog who, going by his smug expression and the gravy-stained fringe of fur around his muzzle, had enjoyed the fruits of the kitchen. Cook was clearly more of a dog lover than Purvis.
Then, with Hamish sitting up in lordly fashion on the passenger seat, Julian drove away, heading to his barber.
Julian was driving his curricle through the streets of London when he spotted an elegant dark-haired lady approaching Hatchard’s Bookshop with another female. He caught a glimpse of her profile and blinked. It was Vita!
But it couldn’t be. She was in France.
The footpath was quite crowded, but he saw the woman turn to her companion, and say something that made them both laugh.
Dammit, it was Vita, he was sure of it! Calling to his groom to hold the horses, he jumped down and plunged into the crowd after her.
He reached them just as they were about to enter the bookshop. “Vita!” He grabbed her by the arm and swung her around to face him.
And stared, dumbfounded.
“I beg your pardon,” the woman said in freezing accents.
He just stared, stunned.
Her gaze dropped pointedly to where he gripped her arm. He hurriedly released her and stepped back. “I’m sosorry, madam. I thought—I was sure you were—the resemblance is uncanny.” Dammit, he was practically stammering.
She arched a skeptical dark brow in exactly the same way Vita used to. Her green eyes—the same color as Vita’s—gleamed with humor. Or was it malice? He wasn’t sure. She wasn’t Vita, he could see that now. This woman was a few years older, more polished and sophisticated. And far better dressed.
Still, her resemblance to Vita was striking.
She gave him an amused look, smoothed her gloves and said to her companion, “I’ve had men try to scrape an acquaintance with me before, but never in a public street. It lacks finesse, don’t you agree, Clarissa?”
Her companion murmured something he didn’t catch and tried to draw her away.
“I do most sincerely apologize,” he said firmly. “The fact is I mistook you for someone else.”
“Indeed? I would never have guessed.”
He felt so stupid. “Yes. Someone who looks remarkably like you.”
“Really?” she said in amused disbelief. “And here I’ve always considered myself an original.”
Dammit, he was digging himself in deeper. He took a deep breath. “Again, I must apologize, madam, for approaching you so intemperately, and for, er, touching your arm. I was clearly mistaken.”
“I should think so.” She said it severely, but her eyes were dancing. She linked her arm through her companion’s. “Come, Clarissa, we shall leave this gentleman to his delusions.” And the two women disappeared into the shop.
Julian returned to his curricle, which was now surrounded by carters and traders and other drivers, not to mention interested onlookers, all loudly objecting to the way his curricle was blocking the street and holding up the traffic.
Issuing curt apologies in all directions, he climbed back into his curricle, gathered the reins and drove off, cursing his foolish mistake. HeknewVita was in Paris, so why on earth had he imagined she was about to enter a London bookshop? She probably couldn’t even read. Certainly not in English.
He was obviously doing the same as he’d done in Paris—imagining things, seeing Vita everywhere.
The sooner he left London and headed down to his country home, the better for his sanity.
“Well, you’re a dark horse, aren’t you?” Izzy said to Zoë later that day. The three sisters were gathered in the summerhouse with a pot of tea and a plate of delicious almond and orange biscuits that Izzy’s cook, Alfonso, had baked.
