low voice. “I find you exquisite, delightful, a wondrous…”
“Oh, be quiet,” she said crossly. “You think I’m—”
He stopped, and one gloved finger haltered her in midsentence. They were on the edge of the market now, beneath the shadows of an overhanging building, and she could see his face now, see his eyes, no longer covered by drooping lids.
“I find you exquisite, delightful, a wondrous temptation and most definitely not for me,” he said in a slow, deliberate voice. “You have everyone else at your feet, Miss Lydia. Why should you need me as well?”
For a moment she couldn’t speak, mesmerized by the torment she saw in the dark depths of his eyes. “Because you’re the one I want,” she said in a hushed voice, shocked at herself. Shocked at the simple truth of it.
He stared down at her for a long moment. And then his head moved, and she knew he was going to kiss her, here in this marketplace full of people, he was going to put his scarred mouth on hers, and she was going to throw her arms around him and kiss him back.
“There you are, Miss Lydia!” Jacobs’s voice broke the moment, and Reading released her arm. She turned, feeling the heat flood her cheeks.
“I thought I’d lost you, Jacobs,” she said in a determinedly cheerful voice, as if she hadn’t just lost her only chance for the best kiss of her life. “Mr. Reading was kind enough to escort me in your place.” She turned back to him, ready to say all the polite things. And then the words, the breath left her, as she finally looked into his eyes and saw the truth.
A moment later it was gone, and he bowed over her hand. “Your servant, Miss Lydia,” he murmured, and a moment later he was gone, swallowed up by the crowds.
She stood motionless, watching him until he disappeared, her heart hammering. It was no wonder she hadn’t been able to read his thoughts, his feelings in his dark, shaded eyes. They were deeper, more powerful than she’d ever imagined. Too powerful to put into words. All she knew was she wanted to run after him, throwing caution, throwing everything to the winds. He’d said she wasn’t for the likes of him. She didn’t care. She’d follow him anywhere, she’d…
“Miss Lydia?” Jacobs broke through her momentary dream, bringing her back to reality with a thud. “We need to finish the marketing and get back home. The doctor is due this afternoon, and he was going to take you to the park for a picnic.” He made it sound like an operation.
Etienne, she thought miserably. The man she was going to marry. The right man for her. If she learned to stop dreaming. “I think we need tripe,” she said. “Come along, Jacobs. You’re right, we’d best hurry.”
She told herself to stop thinking about Mr. Reading’s eyes, immediately. And she almost succeeded.
13
Elinor was sitting alone in the refurbished parlor, rereading a book of philosophy. There was a thick Persian carpet on the floor, heavy damask drapes covering the dreary windows, and the chair beneath her was sinfully comfortable. There was a good fire in the grate, the new table had fresh spring flowers, and the place no longer stank of poverty and death. It was pleasant, comfortable, even if she had to thank Rohan for it all.
She’d allowed Lydia to accompany Etienne on his rounds that afternoon, after her morning visit to the market. Lydia had returned, flushed and abstracted, retiring to the bedroom until the doctor arrived. By then she was her usual sweet, smiling self, the shadow gone from her eyes. Almost. What could have happened at the market, with Jacobs close by, that could have overset her?
It was probably her active imagination. She was so used to disaster that it was hard to believe that disaster had been averted. If things continued as they were, Lydia would marry the doctor and bring Nanny Maude and Jacobs into their household. Elinor would even be willing to face the King of Hell in his den in order to make that possible.
And then she’d be blissfully, deliriously free. The thought was terrifying, intoxicating. One thing was certain—she wouldn’t move in with her sister. She could already see the way Etienne’s mind worked, and he would doubtless welcome another conscripted pair of hands, someone to work for the dubious charity of a bed and food.
She would find something, anything. She might travel back to England—surely there