A Duchess a Day (Awakened by a Kiss #1) - Charis Michaels Page 0,67
Girdleston found out, at least she wouldn’t have the added pressure of keeping him out of Newgate.
It was one thing for her to develop an . . . an affection for a mercenary, quite another for her to fall for a convict.
Helena held a map of the museum to a lantern, studying the route to the Egyptian Hall. She didn’t ask for his help. She wouldn’t need it, and also reading a map together would feel very forced in this moment.
Poking her head through an open doorway, she frowned at an exhibit of ancient crockery, and strode out down an opposite hall.
“We’re very close,” she whispered, brushing past him.
Declan followed, replaying their conversation. What he had expected? That she would simply agree with him? When had she ever simply agreed? She’d had too many people dictating her future for too long. She wanted to decide. She should decide.
But it felt shortsighted and unsustainable for her to settle on him.
She was headstrong and knew her own mind, but could she conceive of the life he could give her—or (more accurately) not give her? Compensation for mercenary work was decent—a living wage to be sure—and he demanded a very high fee, but his savings had vanished. If he was fully exonerated (and that was a significant if), he would start again from nothing. She was strong and resilient and claimed to have her own living, but could he saddle her with a husband who would rebuild from nothing? If he was not locked away forever?
No, I cannot, he thought, watching her slender back as she wound through the dark halls.
He’d not pry her from Lusk only to bind her to a possible convict who could not feed his horse.
And anyway, “binding her to him” was a very great assumption. She desired him, of this he had no doubt. She did not want him to push her away—she’d made that perfectly clear. But did she wish to marry him? Was he the future that she saw for herself? Or was she caught up in fierce attraction and untried desire?
Did she want him forever . . . or simply for now?
He dared not ask. He didn’t want to know. If she was wise—if they would both use their heads and not their . . . and not any other parts—they would concentrate only on now.
And keep their hands off.
Now she’d located the Egyptian Hall, a long, dim room flanked by sphinxes and a labyrinth of glass cases containing mummified bodies. Helena strode boldly forth, seemingly unphased by the vaguely human-shaped cocoons lying still beneath the glass. A handful of other museumgoers milled in the distance, studying the placards or holding guidebooks to the lantern light. Helena stuck her head inside anterooms and book-lined alcoves until, at last, she came upon an open door that led into what appeared to be an off-limits staff room, illuminated with high lantern light and dominated by a long table, strewn with open books and unfurled parchment.
In a stiff chair in the center of the table slumped a young woman with fiery red hair and an ink-stained apron. She appeared to be asleep across an open book.
Helena shot Declan a hopeful smile and stepped through the door. She cleared her throat. She gave a chair a gentle shove. The loud screeching sound of wood on stone rang through the hall. The woman did not stir.
Declan scanned the room for potential threats and found it empty except for bookshelves and open cases of artifacts. Another door on the opposite end was shut. Helena inched closer to the woman with intentionally loud steps. The sleeping girl began to snore.
Helena stepped closer and said, “I beg your pardon.”
At last, the girl jerked up with a start, blinked three times, and stared down at the open book before her. She frowned.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” ventured Helena.
The girl turned her face, squinting her eyes at the intrusion. “Oh. Sorry,” she said. “There are no exhibits in this room. This area is devoted to research for faculty and staff. If you’re looking for the sarcophagi, they’re actually—”
“Are you, by chance, Miss Jessica Marten?” Helena cut in.
The girl paused, looking confused. “I am Jessica Marten.”
“Oh, lovely,” said Helena. “I am Lady Helena Lark, and I’ve been searching for you . . .”
Declan drifted just outside the door to stand guard, hearing their conversation in snatches.
“Forgive my intrusion, but we have a friend in common, and she said I might find you here,” Helena began.