“Thank you.” I swallowed. “I’ll just…” Another sweep of my arm, indicating the stairs.
But I trailed off because I had no clue what I’d just do.
I hadn’t looked at all of the books in the library, but the ones I looked at were in a language I couldn’t read. There was no TV. There was nothing around us but what appeared to be a barn, a small square building with smoke coming out the top and nothing else. Not even a formal garden to wander through.
I was alone with nothing to do. Those who I could speak to knew and loved the other me so I couldn’t be around them without causing them pain. The ones who didn’t know her didn’t understand me.
I didn’t have anything to do or anyone to share my time with.
This was sad and it sucked.
It had always sucked.
But there was one thing about it.
I was used to it.
“I’ll just…be going,” I finished.
Derrik nodded.
I gave him a small smile.
Then I went.
* * * * *
I was lying on the lounge in my preposterously fabulous bedroom lamenting my plight as I’d been doing all day, when I heard it.
It was dark, late, I was fatigued but I couldn’t sleep because I was sad, pissed and worried.
But the noise sounded like what I guessed a horse and carriage would sound like on a stone road and I was curious to see if I was right. Not to mention, curious at what a horse and carriage looked like.
So I pushed myself up and made my way to the French doors.
I was wearing a nightgown, of which I now had three, all my own (I knew this because I’d tried them all on and they all fit). It was a satin the deep purple hue of blackberries and it fell to my ankles. It also had a panel of same-color lace that started narrow under my arm and got wider as it followed the length of the gown to the hem.
In other words, it was the shit.
That said, it was bedroom-only wear, the curtains were sheer and several of the lamps in the room had been lit, giving the entire room a soft glow that would mean, if you were outside, you could see in.
Therefore, I approached the French doors carefully, coming at them from the side, pulling the sheers open a few inches and peering out.
The outside was ablaze too (or, as ablaze as you could get without electricity). I could see a woman alighting from a black, covered carriage; the man in rough clothing the wardrobe people for a movie would dress a peasant in at the seat in front, not bothering to help her down.
But I didn’t have time for the man.
I was staring at the woman.
She had dark hair swept up in an elaborate updo of big curls. I could only see her profile but I could tell her makeup was far from light. In fact, it was borderline gaudy. Her gown was ostentatious, if seemingly well-made. It wasn’t borderline over the top, it just was. And her cle**age was—no other word for it—indecent. Last, she was wearing a lot of jewelry which pushed gaudy to tawdry.
Regardless of all this, she was beautiful. Beyond beautiful. Breathtaking. Her looks so lush, her curves so abundant, she was a knockout.
What the hell? Who was she?
She moved to the curving steps that led up to the house just as a tall, broad-shouldered man I’d never seen before with burnished, dark red hair came out of the house and walked down the steps. Not surprisingly, he was in romance hero clothes. I couldn’t see his face, just the top of his head, and he approached her directly.
I watched them have a conversation, her gesturing, him shaking his head.