Page 26 of When a Duke Loves a Woman
That was certainly something he wouldn’t be able to say if they waltzed. Not that they ever would, not that she suddenly wished they would. Nor did she wish to envision another woman in his arms. “Hair?”
“She’s fair. Blond.”
“Light blond? Dark blond?”
His brow furrowed. “Blond.”
“You’re certainly a man for detail. Eye color?”
He looked lost, as though she’d asked if his betrothed possessed a tail. “Surely she won’t be identified by her eyes.”
“Does she have freckles? Is there anything that stands out about her?”
“She’s quite fetching.”
She fought not to laugh. “That will make her easy to spot.”
He scowled. “I have a miniature of her that I could bring to you.”
“That could prove helpful.” And ensured she’d see him again. Reaching across, she placed her hand over his clenched fist that rested beside his glass. “You’ve set an impossible task for yourself. If she doesn’t wish to be found, you won’t find her. This area is crowded with immigrants and the impoverished. There are warrens of slums. Two, three, four families are crowded into dwellings.”
“I’m well aware of that. Still I need to try.”
“Why don’t you return here tomorrow afternoon? We’ll have a look ’round some lodging houses and shelters.”
He gave a brisk nod. “I appreciate your willingness to help.”
“Her absence could mean nothing at all. Maybe she simply got nervous about getting married. Now she’s afraid to return home, fearful you and her family will be angry.”
“Or maybe, as you’ve implied, she had a rather good reason for not walking down the aisle. I won’t rest until I know what it is.”
It was an odd thing that the whisky was not as tasty as what he’d had earlier. He’d always favored Dewar’s, but as he sat on his terrace, staring out into the darkened gardens, he wondered if his absence of enjoyment had more to do with the company he was keeping—his own.
He’d felt rather inadequate responding to questions regarding Lavinia, his answers falling well short of the mark. He tried to recall her more clearly.
Her eyes. Closing his, he dropped his head back and envisioned them. They were the color of moss mixed with the shade of freshly turned earth. A narrow black ring circled her iris. When she became passionate her eyes darkened with her intensity. When she laughed they lightened with her joy. He could see them in exquisite detail. The eyes of a tavern owner.
But for the life of him he couldn’t recall Lavinia’s.
From the moment Gillie had called out in the alleyway that fateful night, he could recount every word she’d spoken. Try as he might, he couldn’t evoke a single conversation he’d had with Lavinia. Other than his proposal to her, which, in retrospect, had been quite bland.
“Will you honor me by becoming my wife?”
“I’d be delighted.”
It had been lacking in passion, but then passion wasn’t needed for marriage. Of course, a commoner wouldn’t know that. Commoners were ruled by baser instincts. It was the reason they gave birth to children out of wedlock.
He couldn’t imagine the sort of person who would leave a babe on a doorstep. What if the woman hadn’t taken her in? What if she hadn’t been discovered until the elements had their way with her, snuffed out her life?
The rage that burst through him with the thought caused his hand to tremble. No doubt his reaction was the lingering result of a dying man grateful to the woman who had saved him. That his heart had sped up at the sight of her when he’d first entered the tavern, that he was anticipating seeing her on the morrow was merely coincidence, the consequence of not yet shaking off how close he’d come to death and how she had pulled him from its gaping maw.
Chapter 9
Standing in front of the mirror, Gillie studied her reflection, disgusted with herself because she wore one of her finer dark blue skirts and a white blouse, both usually reserved for when she paid a visit to her mum. She’d added a short dark blue buttonless jacket with tiny red hollies embroidered on it, which she generally wore at Christmas. That particular occasion was months away, but there she was dressing to impress a duke.
She blew out a great gust of air. She’d change into her normal working clothes but little time remained before the tavern would be opening at ten, and she was running behind. This morning she’d bathed and washed her hair. Naturally today the short strands had decided to mutiny once they were dry and had been sticking up like the quills of a hedgehog. So she’d had to wash it again and brush it continually to keep the locks from rebelling as they dried. Then she’d debated her attire as though he wasn’t accustomed to seeing ladies dressed in the finest of silks. She’d decided to add the jacket at the last minute because, although it was August, it was possible it might be cool out.
With another put-upon sigh, she spun on her heel and headed out. She should not have agreed to help him. Yes, she knew these streets but he’d set an impossible task for himself. “A needle in a haystack,” she muttered as she entered the tavern through the back door that led into the kitchen.
