he was as rich as Croesus hadn’t entered into their union at all. She had liked him, at first. He’d amused her, then charmed her, and once they’d become friends, she’d found herself anticipating his presence.
“You are insidious,” she’d told him once. “You’re very sneaky. I find myself depending on your counsel and craving time with you. I don’t know how you do it.”
“It’s a secret,” he responded. “I’m not about to tell you how. Then you might learn that I am but an ordinary man, worshipping at the feet of a goddess.”
She’d laughed at the time, but that’s exactly how he had treated her in the seven years of their marriage—like a goddess, or an angel. As if she could do no wrong and even when she did make a mistake, he forgave her so quickly and easily that she fell in love even more.
When he died, she hadn’t thought she’d recover from the loss. It had been Mary who’d made her see the joy of life again, or at least the possibility of it.
If Mary could make her life have meaning, then surely she could.
It was for Mary that she was here now, preparing for an encounter with the owner of the Mayfair Club.
She turned to her maid. “I’d prefer that you remain in the carriage, Abigail. Especially given the delicate state of your digestion.”
Just as Abigail was about to begin a new litany of complaints, no doubt accompanied by comments about how Fortune would not look kindly on her being left alone, Ellen hurried out of the carriage.
Her driver, who’d taken on the position of bodyguard—or duenna, as she secretly thought—since Colin died, preceded her up the stairs and insisted on announcing her arrival. Instead of using the brass knocker, he pounded on one of the black panels. Since Harry was a man of considerable girth, she was very much afraid the door was going to lose in this battle of brawn.
Fortunately, it was opened a moment later by the porter, a man looking every bit as proper as someone employed in a duke’s household. The previous three establishments had not boasted of a man so tall, thin, and possessed of a shock of white hair like a barrister’s wig.
“I am Mrs. Colin Thornton,” she said, before Harry could say a word. “I believe I’m expected.”
The porter bowed from the waist at the same time he sent a frown in Harry’s direction. For the next two minutes the two men scowled at each other.
She shook her head at both of them. She understood Harry’s possessiveness. He’d worked for Colin for years, and once he’d died, Harry had transferred his loyalty to her. It wasn’t difficult to understand that the porter might have some pride in his own position as well.
The problem was, their mutual antipathy was preventing her from accomplishing her goal. Namely: finding Harrison Adaire and taking him home.
“Would you please announce me? I need to speak with your owner,” she said before turning to Harry. “If you’d go and make sure Abigail is all right?”
There, she’d given each man a task, and after one last fulminating look, they went to do just that.
Chapter Four
Five years had passed since he’d seen Jennifer and, although Gordon had expected her to change, he hadn’t anticipated that she would grow more beautiful. Even her voice was different, soft and musical. When she’d spoken his name, it had been a honed weapon, sliding into his heart.
She was . . . His thoughts ended in an odd blankness. He didn’t know what the word was to adequately describe her now. It seemed to him that it was lush, although that didn’t quite fit, either. Her lashes were thicker. Her lips were fuller. The color on her cheeks was not quite pink but closer to coral. Her figure was different, too. There the word lush fit perfectly. Her waist looked as small, but her breasts were larger.
The desire to take her into his arms and greet her properly had been so strong that he’d found it easier to avoid looking at her.
He’d wanted to touch her, to feel the shape of her back again as well as the slender beauty of her arms. Most of all he’d wanted to kiss her, even if everyone stared. Let them stare. After an hour or so he’d have enough of kissing Jennifer, but only for a while.
He’d thought she would greet him, but she hadn’t. After saying his name, she’d not addressed him at all.