Page 45 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
“If you wish the school to succeed, Lady Cordelia,” Lord Ellsby drawled, “then it would be best ifyoustopped speaking of it.”
A gasp rose in her chest with a sharp breath, but she refused to let it out. She knew well his implications. “Have I offended you, my lord?” she asked instead. “If so, please tell me how, so I may make up for it.”
He waved a hand at her. “Your presence offends.”
Not much she could do about that but leave, and that she would not do. At least not until the party ended. Naturally. But that hardly signified at the moment. She swallowed a yawn and forced her mind back on task.
But time, like her opportunities, drained away as Ellsby rose to his feet on creaky knees and held out his hand for Mrs. Pruitt. “Come, my dear, let us join Mr. Bradley for cards.”
Then Cordelia was alone. She searched the room for another corner of conversation, another opportunity for her school, but everywhere she looked, others looked away. The cold shoulder. The cut direct. Perfection.
She rejoined Lady Castle and sank back into her chair. “It seems I am not welcome here.”
Mrs. Castle patted her shoulder. “All of us have felt the sting of disapproval at one time or another. Ellsby and Pruitt are not free of scandal. They merely think theirs is less scandalous than others.” Mrs. Castle sniffed. “They are not worth knowing.”
“People generally like me. I try hard to make it so.”
“Don’t mind them. No one here is better than anyone else, though some of us have titles and some do not. We all live a middling sort of life. The things we create admired by the ton, but our own selves cast off. You seem to have accrued the things they want—house, funds, protection—without possessing the skill they do.”
“Lord Waneborough did not save me for my talent,” Cordelia whispered, guilt curling her insides.
“I know. It was impossible to meet the man and not see the kindness simmering in him. He could be a bit flighty and forgetful, but he wished to make the world better. Thought art the way to do that.”
“He made my world better.” Art had as well. No matter the man’s faults, he’d got that part right.
“Ah, yes. But also, perhaps, put you in a difficult position. Your association with him, vague as it is, hinders your ability to marry within the sphere you were born to. And his treatment of Simon Oakley colors how those inthissphere view you. I do not envy you.” She placed a hand on Cordelia’s shoulder again, squeezed it this time. “You look exhausted. Retire now and get some sleep. I’ve no doubt your Lord Theodore will champion you, whatever happens.”
Cordelia stood, nodding and smiling, though her very soul trembled. Lord Theodore was not her champion, not really.
Yet, as she marched up the ever-spiraling stone staircase, she could not shake the feeling—like a ghost—that hewas. That if she told him she needed him, he’d give of himself to do so. It must be the lack of sleep that made her feel such falsehoods were true. Her door creaked open, and she slipped out of her gown and into her shift with the ease of cream pouring into a teacup. Her body had become liquid, malleable, but as soon as her head lay on the pillow and she closed her eyes, her body popped awake. She pressed her eyes tight, attempted, as she had every night since coming here, to empty her mind and find some peace.
She found only the buzzing electricity of loneliness. She rolled onto her back and opened her eyes. No use closing them now. The ceiling above her bed remained the same as it had been the last three sleepless nights. Dark, still—the perfect surface to play over the moments of her greatest loneliness in life. When her father had died. When Simon had abandoned her. When she’d agreed to live in a house alone with no friends nearby to keep her company. When the first art instructor quit after three weeks of tutoring. When she’d heard of Lord Waneborough’s death. When she’d met Lord Theodore, and he’d told her she must leave her life behind.
He’d brought with him news of change. But only of scenery because, for her, nothing could ever truly change. She would always be alone; would never have the husband and children she’d once dreamed of. When she’d been an earl’s daughter and not a marquess’s mysterious scandal.
She might not even have a school. She’d amassed promises of donations, but not enough. And if the others banded with Mr. Bradley as Lord Ellsby had… She’d likely end up a companion to Lady Balantine after all. Unwanted, accepted only out of charity and pity.
Lord Theodore would help her, though. Theo. Who kissed like welcome sin. And suddenly, she wanted kissing very much. Kissing to ease the ache of loneliness. Kissing to drown out thoughts of solitude. But if he kissed her now, she might very well fall asleep on him.
Horrid thought, that.
Kissing would be nice, but she desired nothing more at that very moment than sleep.
She slipped her legs over the edge of the bed and grabbed her wrapper, donned it, and rested her bare feet against the cold floor. They took her into the hallway after the deafening creak of her opening door, and they took her to stand before his bedchamber door, holding her wrapper tight across the front of her body with a white-knuckled fist. She took a deep breath. She must do this. She had no one else to ask for help, and in her current state, she could not continue playacting for him or charming the other guests for herself.
She knocked, a sharp rap before she let her hand hover just inches from the door, waiting. Then she knocked again, and before she could finish, the door swung open, and Theo stood tall and—she swallowed hard—shirtless in the frame, his hair falling over his brow, his eyes hazy from sleep, ink smudged on his large hands.
She pushed past him, taking advantage of his confusion to gain entry.
“Cordelia?” He closed the door—no squeak from his hinges, only the barest click of the lock in the frame. “What are you doing here? Are you well?”
The night outside his window glowed black as pitch, the clouds from a dreary day blocking the stars. She faced him. “I would like to sleep with you. Or you with me. Doesn’t matter, really, as long as I’m not alone.”
No moonlight in the room to see his reaction. He offered a dark outline only. Unmoving. Then he cursed and crooked an arm, lifted it, the outline of a bunched bicep popped into view as he ran a hand through his hair.
“You’re not alone. Your room shares a wall with mine. There are dozens of guests nearby.”
She shook her head. “Not enough. When I first moved to your father’s house, a housekeeper, maid, and cook were all employed, and one of them slept in the house every night. I was never alone, but… I did not know anyone. No one knew me well enough to care what happened to me. If I died in my sleep…” She shook her head, wrapped her arms around her, and turned back toward the window. “When I’m alone like that, my mind runs away with me. No, that’s not quite right. It locks me up inside myself, reminding me that alone is all I’ll ever be. It’s… suffocating.”
