Page 118 of From Rakes to Riches

They came from different worlds with different rules.

She was running from prosecution.

Hell, York wasn’t even her real last name.

There was so much she couldn’t tell him and yet when they were together, when they kissed, the connection they shared made her believe nothing truer ever existed.

She kept going, taking the longest possible route back to the grandstand, and then she climbed the ladder to her platform, took off her slippers, and walked the rope in an attempt to restore her balance.

Theodore satacross from Wyndham inside the carriage. His valet had a portfolio of paperwork spread on the seat beside him, but Theodore was in no mood for discussions regarding investments or household budgets.

It was a peculiar anomaly that one hour spent in someone’s company could impact him in such a way he could think of little else. And while he was always plagued by restlessness, last evening after he’d ridden home from Lola’s building, he’d prowled around his house like one of the panthers held captive in the Tower of London’s menagerie. He hadn’t wanted to leave her. And after he had, he’d only wanted to return.

Now, he’d just departed his town house to travel to Ipswich and the desire to see Lola was stronger than ever. He had no sensible way to explain it. He rapped on the carriage roof and his driver opened the trap door.

“One stop before we continue, Jenkins,” he said, ignoring Wyndham’s inquisitive stare. “Take me to Vauxhall Gardens.”

“My lord?” Wyndham asked as soon as the carriage moved on.

“I need to fetch something important before we continue.”One of Lola’s kisses.But he wasn’t about to share that with his man-of-all-things.

Wyndham returned to the papers strewn across the bench and Theodore watched their progress through the square window. He was behaving the lovesick fool. He didn’t care. He answered to no one and had neither demanding father nor doting mother to lecture him on the decorum of the earldom. He could do whatever the bloody hell he wanted.

Hopefully, Lola would be easy to locate. He assumed she would be practicing.

When he arrived, he headed directly for the grandstand, but it wasn’t Lola on the platform as he approached. It was Marco. From what he could tell, Marco was securing the ropes where they stretched from one wooden stanchion to the other. That couldn’t be his responsibility. Besides, Lola wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

“She’s not here,” Marco called as he descended the ladder and stalked across the grass to where Theodore stood.

“Why are you here?” Theodore asked, wary of the man’s actions.

“I work here,” Marco said plainly. “I belong here.”

The latter was said with obvious contempt.

“Why were you on Lola’s platform?” Theodore asked, watching Marco carefully.

“We argued earlier. I wanted to make it right.” He gestured to the rope above their heads. “Then I thought to check the knots. To make sure everything is as it should be for her performance tonight.”

“Lola always checks the ropes.”

“So now you know her better than me?” Marco said. “I told you the other day. Lola doesn’t need a keeper. Especially not some titled gentleman who believes he’s better than everyone else.”

“Lola can make her own decisions,” Theodore said, keeping his temper in check. Arguing with Marco would prove a waste of time.

“That’s true as long as she’s not being lied to,” Marco scoffed. “She’ll never be able to trust you because eventually she’ll realize you’re the same as the nob who made her leave her family and Ipswich. You don’t care about anybody but yourself. That’s why you’re here now, right? You want something else.”

“Marco!”

Sofia’s voice cut across the lawn and both men turned to see her approach.

“Hello, Miss Gallo.”

Marco jerked his head around, apparently surprised Theodore knew Sofia by name.

“Lord Essex.” Sofia smiled slightly before she spoke to Marco. “Dio mio!What are you doing? Lola will be upset.”

Marco stared at Theodore for a long moment before he turned to Sofia. “Somebody around here has to start telling the truth.” Then he walked away.

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