Page 22 of The Secret of My Seduction
“And as is so often the case, you are destined to remain ignorant.” Liam paused in the doorway. “And if you tell Winston aught of her, you’ll regret it.”
Something in his tone must have finally penetrated his brother’s glee. The smug look faded from Angus’s face. “What—you don’t say—”
“If you gossip about my personal affairs, I beg you to remember I own a newspaper.”
Angus drew up in affront. “There’s no call for that. Have I got it wrong? Have you got a wealthy widow on the line, being reeled in one bedroom romp at a time?”
Liam stared at him. “No wonder you’re a banker. You’ve got bollocks for brains.”
A cunning smile returned to his brother’s face. “No? A Covent Garden whore? Don’t say it—an aspiring newspaper writer, looking to see her name in print?”
He took a deep breath and let it out, counting to twenty as he did so. “Angus,” he said, “Go home. Tell Winston I’ve no desire to go shooting today. Then pay a call upon Miss Lachlan and tell her you’re going out of your wits without her. Get down on your knee and beg her to end her mourning early and set a date for the wedding. Then you’ll have your ownamourto entertain you.” He spat out the wordamourwith disdain.
“I say.” Angus looked offended. “There’s no reason to bring her into this—”
“If you want to pick apart my romantic life, I’m perfectly capable of returning the favor.”
His brother’s eyes narrowed. “Quite defensive.” He cocked his head in the direction of the long-since departed carriage. “She’s not a whore, is she, nor some married lady looking for a spot of fun.”
Liam was quiet for a minute. Bathsheba was none of that, nor was she any of the other things Angus had suggested. She was his friend, his partner, his lover—all by her own initiative. That had been niggling at him for a while, and finally here and now it condensed. It was time forhimto take some initiative, if he wanted more. “No.”
Slowly Angus shook his head. The humor had fled from his face and he looked almost pitying. “Then you’re done for, lad. As your older and much wiser brother, I regret to inform you that the only way that sort of affair can end well is if you marry her.”
Chapter Eleven
For several days Bathsheba pondered the etiquette of ending an affair.
On one hand, since it had been essentially a business arrangement between them, perhaps she ought to send a note of thanks. But on the other hand, her mind went completely blank at the thought of writing anything that came close to conveying her feelings about the nights spent with Liam. She considered writing to remind him of their mutual vow of discretion, but worried that would be insulting and pointless. If he had decided to tell his friends, her caution would mean little to him. Indecision bedeviled her until so much time had passed, it would seem stranger to send a letter than not to, so she wrote nothing, and instantly began worrying that it was a mistake.
She had no excuse or reason to see Liam. She returned to work on her next story, the words flowing smoothly, but somehow with far less delight than before. Her days settled back into an ordinary rhythm, the same as always and yet somehow utterly different. Danny’s work in Greenwich was demanding, and he was gone more often than he was home. Even when he was home he spent most of his time printing or at the bindery. On the rare nights they dined together, he was very reluctant to talk about his client. Bathsheba put together that the client was a wealthy widow, quite demanding and exacting, and it caused her a pang of worry that her brother was taking on such onerous work to provide for them. Perhaps she ought to tell him aboutLady X. The stories had earned her a nice sum…but hardly enough to put all their financial worries to rest. And if Danny knew what she had done in the interest of research, he would be furious.
She was plodding through a scene one morning when her maid tapped at the door. “Mr. MacGregor to see you, ma’am,” said Mary.
Bathsheba’s pen skittered across the paper, leaving a blotchy trail of ink behind it. What was he doing here? Why would he come? Merciful heavens, what if Danny came home?
Trying to still the trembling of her fingers, she put the pen down and blotted all that wasted ink. “I’ll be right down,” she told her maid. “Show him into the parlor.”
Mary disappeared and Bathsheba folded her hands tightly in her lap. She had worked with Liam for the better part of a year now, and not once had he come to her home. They communicated via penny post or her visits to his office, which was more convenient for both of them. He was always at theIntelligencer, after all. And never had she detected the slightest interest on Liam’s part in calling upon her at home.
As if they were lovers.
As if they were…more.
She rose from her chair and smoothed a hand over her head. Her hair was pinned into the soft chignon Mary had grown adept at arranging. It was just as practical as the braided knot, but looser. Her dress was a new one, raspberry-colored with a delicate trail of yellow embroidery at the neckline. Even though it had been ridiculous to spend money on a new dress she didn’t need, Bathsheba liked it. She felt almost handsome in it, and every time the pink skirt swished around her, she remembered Liam saying she should wear colors. Now she twitched that soft, pretty skirt into place, put her shoulders back, and went down the stairs to the parlor.
Mary had left the door open, and late morning sun spilled through the doorway. Bathsheba’s steps slowed as she crossed the hall and her heart sped up. With a deep breath, she walked into the room. “Good morning. What a surprise.”
He turned. After three weeks of separation, it was like seeing him for the first time, tall and lean, dark hair ruffled as if he’d pushed his hand through it. The force of attraction nearly bowled her over, even now, and she surreptitiously placed one hand on the door to steady herself.
“Good morning, Bathsheba.” He paused. “You look well.”
She had to clear her throat; a lump had formed at the sound of his voice. With a quick breath—chiding herself for being emotionally unbalanced—she closed the door and came into the room. “Won’t you sit down?”
He took the small sofa opposite her. The Crawford parlor had seen better days, but it had also seen far worse. It didn’t have the eccentric charm or the secluded quiet of Liam’s house in St. John’s Wood. Bathsheba was irrationally aware of this as she perched on the edge of the armchair.
“How have you been?” Liam asked, his gaze intent upon her.
“Very well, thank you.” She pressed her hands into the fabric of her skirt to keep from fidgeting. “You?”
