to creep in.
But now, back in London, among people who had known her as a child, a young girl—even though her body ached with tiredness, the thoughts and feelings held sleep at bay.
A little spark of anger flared in a dark corner of her heart, a corner she never looked into. From her father’s point of view, her marriage now was an unquestioned necessity. She rolled over and thumped the pillow. She would not, under any circumstances, acquiesce to any match proposed by her father.
The little spark had caught, lighting up the corner. Thea shut her eyes to it, dousing it. She wouldn’t look there. She mustn’t. Better that it remained shadowed. Hidden from the light. If she permitted herself to feel anything again … anger, hurt … even love, she pushed them all away. Safer to remain calm. Unmoved. As untouched as she could ever be.
The news would be all over London that Miss Winslow, only daughter of Viscount Aberfield and heiress to fifty thousand pounds, was residing in Grosvenor Square with Lady Arnsworth. She would be sought out. Courted, flattered, every social distinction pressed upon her.
The thought sickened her.
Money bought acceptance; with fifty thousand pounds, as long as the truth remained a whisper, the past would be ignored by many. Not by all, but many including her own father.
She gritted her teeth. She didn’t want that sort of acceptance anyway. Especially not from Aberfield. Uncle James had shown more understanding and affection for her than her own father. He had been prepared to believe her innocence and reverse his decision to disinherit her. Aberfield had reinstated her only because of the money. It was easier somehow to think of him as Aberfield, not Papa. It wasn’t as though he wanted her as his daughter. All he wanted was for her money to secure a husband of benefit to himself.
A queer thought came to her—she doubted that her money would buy Richard’s good opinion if ever he knew the truth. She could count on his honesty. She shivered, and drew the blankets closer. Why was she thinking of Richard anyway? How could she know what he had become? She hadn’t seen him since her come-out ball.
The memory slipped past her defences. He had danced with her that night, laughing because her wretched hair was escaping, enjoying the ball as much as she, although he rarely danced because of his leg. He had danced with her twice, and then she hadn’t seen him again until today.
She pushed the memory away. Richard would be revolted if he knew the truth; at best he would feel sorry for her.
She didn’t want pity. She wanted nothing of anyone. She didn’t need anyone—she could stand by herself. And in less than three months she would be free. Only … what on earth would she do with her freedom once she had it? She would enjoy it, that was what. And in the meantime she would enjoy herself now. Here. In London. She was not going to permit her fears to rule her life—she would not wait for her twenty-fifth birthday to release her, she would begin now. Tomorrow—no, it was tomorrow already. Today. She would begin today. She had put off enough tomorrows.
Thea arose early the following morning and dressed without summoning a maid—she could manage her short wraparound stays herself. Unsurprisingly when she went downstairs, she found the breakfast parlour empty. Having been out the previous evening, Lady Arnsworth would probably not arise until noon. Fully expecting to have to ring for tea and toast, she was startled to find a varied selection of food set out in chafing dishes on the sideboard, including, to her great surprise, sirloin.
Puzzled at this very masculine inclusion, Thea helped herself to toast, poached eggs and ham, and made a pot of tea from the urn steaming in the corner.
She enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, and afterwards sipped her tea with lingering enjoyment, wondering what she might do with her day. A day in which she might do precisely as she pleased.
Contemplating this rare treasure, Thea poured another cup of tea. She might take one of the maids and go for a walk. She could visit Hatchards. She might—
Stare at Mr Richard Blakehurst strolling into the breakfast parlour as though he owned it! At this hour! Swallowing her tea with difficulty, she realised that his limp was far less noticeable these days, more a slight halt in the stride than a limp. The harsh lines pain had etched in his face made him look rather forbidding.
Until he smiled his familiar crooked smile.
Which he was doing now, the corners of his eyes creasing in the way she remembered. His whole face lightened. She remembered that too, Richard smiling at her as he clumsily partnered her in a country dance. But he’d always been just Richard. An extra brother. Someone dependable. A dear friend. She didn’t remember that she had ever thought of him as attractive …
‘Good morning, Thea,’ he said pleasantly.
She found herself smiling back.
Attractive? Surely not.
Oh, yes, he was. Even more so as his smile deepened in response to her own.
‘Good morning,’ she returned, confused. ‘Er, Lady Arnsworth is not yet down, sir.’
His brows rose. ‘Just as well,’ he said, strolling to the sideboard. ‘Or you would have to revive me with burnt feathers.’
A giggle escaped her at the image, and with a perfectly straight face Richard added, ‘No proper lady leaves her bedchamber before noon, you know.’
Laughter bubbled up. ‘Are you implying, sir—?’
‘That proper ladies bore me,’ he said, grinning. ‘That’s better. You should laugh more often. And stop calling me sir, Thea. It makes my teeth ache. Now, what have we here?’ He lifted the lid of one of the chafing dishes.
She glared at him. ‘A trifle early for morning calls, is it not?’ she enquired. ‘Especially when your aunt is still abed.’ Better to ignore the implication that she didn’t laugh enough.
He looked around, with a sudden frown. ‘She didn’t tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’
The frown deepened. ‘This isn’t a morning call. I’m staying here too.’
‘What!’ Her teacup clattered into its saucer. ‘Why?’
‘Heiress hunting,’ he said blandly, carving some sirloin.
‘I beg your pardon?’ she said icily.
‘Absolved,’ he said promptly. ‘I’m sure you didn’t mean to be rude.’
Her mouth twitched. She had forgotten his ability to turn the tables so neatly in any verbal sparring.
He helped himself to mustard, sat down and smiled at her again. ‘Don’t blame me. Curse our mutual godmother.’ He took a mouthful.
‘But why are you staying here?’ she asked, refusing to return that annoyingly infectious smile. Smiles like that ought to be outlawed anyway!
He finished his mouthful and said, ‘Because I have business in London and Almeria invited me.’
‘Oh.’ His business was none of her concern. ‘Then—’
‘I am not
