Stillness. A hint of baking beef wafted up from the kitchen, but otherwise the town house felt deliciously peaceful.
Maria gathered up the skirt she’d stepped out of before Jason could feel how heavy it was, to pluck the letters from the deep pockets she’d sewn into its sides. Quickly she crossed the bathroom that adjoined their separate bedchambers, grateful this house had been built with a master and a lady’s needs in mind. Jason intended to sleep with her every night, but having her own room made it easier to keep the one secret no one but her brother knew. Still, it would be a challenge to carry on her career in the presence of a husband, not to mention the servants—
Was that the swish of skirts in the hall?
Maria yanked open the bottom drawer of the armoire, cringing when it creaked. She dropped her mail into it. Was shoving it shut with her foot when someone tapped lightly on her door.
3
Mrs. Booth poked her head in. “Will you be dining downstairs to—Lord A’mighty, Miss Palladino! You’re quite nude!”
Something in her rose to the old biddy’s challenge, despite the way she’d pay for it later. Maria turned to give the housekeeper a full frontal view of her body. “Not really! Would you look at this pendant Jason gave me? Isn’t it the most exquisite—?” She swayed toward the door as she spoke, until Mrs. Booth stepped into the hallway and shut it briskly behind her.
“Lady Darington has graciously provided you with dressing gowns and all manner of nice attire!” the housekeeper’s voice sliced through the door. “While it’s apparent you are ignorant of proper conduct, Quentin and I have been ordered to humor you until the family can instruct you in—”
“Yes, I find this quite humorous,” Maria mocked under her breath.
“—deportment expected of titled society! So when you’ve made yourself decent, you may come downstairs for your evening meal!” Mrs. Booth railed. “And by the powers, I’ll inform Lady Darington she should hire you a maid immediately! To preserve the propriety and decency associated with the family’s fine name!”
So tempting it was, to fire back with Quentin’s tales of Ruthie Booth and her improper propositions! But while she was the outsider here, she was no fool: Dora Darington and her adolescent daughter, Jemma, had repeatedly warned her against such common behavior, reminding her of her lower station at every opportunity. “Thank you, Mrs. Booth, but I prefer to spend the evening before my wedding in silent meditation.”
The housekeeper coughed pointedly.
“Praying for the grace and fortitude to rise into the upper crust from such a humble upbringing,” Maria continued wryly. “It’s probably prenuptial jitters. Every bride gets them, they say.”
“Prenuptial jitters, my arse! You won’t be getting away with such talk—and such carousing in bed—after tomorrow, Miss Palladino!”
“And neither will you be eavesdropping and tattling, Mrs. Booth. Not to mention using such a tone. Thank you for thinking of my needs. Good evening.”
Ear to the door, Maria waited until the housekeeper’s footsteps descended the stairs. Had she overstepped? Perhaps baited the sanctimonious old biddy beyond her tolerance? She understood now why Jason insisted on ruling his roost! Asserting his rights as the heir to the Darington title and estates! Once they lived here as man and wife, no housekeeper would be telling her what was proper or acceptable!
The thought warmed her. She opened the tall doors of the armoire to gaze at the billowing ivory gown she would wear tomorrow, when she would become Jason’s wife—acknowledged by all as his, and therefore a Darington, with all the privileges that came with such prestige. After tomorrow, stodgy Phillip, Lord Darington, and his socialite wife could do nothing further about her deportment…her lower rung on the ladder of life. Although they’d say anything they pleased when guests weren’t present.
But for now, in the privacy of this chamber overdecorated in candy pink and sunshine yellow—at Jemma’s insistence—she could finally read her mail in peace. It might be days before she had the chance to answer these letters, to pen the paragraphs her editor—her readers!—eagerly awaited.
Maria opened the drawer more carefully this time, and then rubbed its edges with a bar of soap to silence its squeal. She carried a fat handful of letters to the window seat and then reclined on its plump pillows to rip open the envelopes. Her eyes raced across the handwritten lines of one missive after another: so hoping you can respond personally to my plight…have enclosed an envelope for a reply that must remain absolutely private…would be most pleased to provide the unbelievable details of my sister’s sordid affair…as I live and breathe, you are the woman my heart yearns for….
She sighed. While her position as social observer and advisor to the lovelorn had its rewards, it wore her thin at times. So many lonely, needy people vying for her time and attention. So many readers of elevated social circumstances wishing to see their gossip in print, and therefore considered gospel by thousands of subscribers. She settled more deeply into the cushions, absently fingering the butterfly pendant and wondering how she’d juggle the inner life she shared with so many readers, now that she was about to marry a man with whom she’d spend her apparent life. Would there come a time when she could reveal her occupation to her husband? Didn’t wives share every little dream and secret with the one they loved?
Jason will feel slighted. He intends to be the center of my world.
True enough. Jason Darington, heir to his father’s title, estate, and shipyards, was a fine, feisty lover. A man to be seen with and adored. But he did not understand taking second place to anything.
Maria sighed. A movement caught her eye on the driveway below and she gazed intently through the lacy curtains: the man approaching the town house could have been Jason, except he wore a flowing poet’s shirt tucked into his fitted trousers. He kept to the shadows of the nearest buildings, using the dusk to his advantage. And damned if he didn’t gaze up at her window, as though he knew she’d be watching for him!
Jude! Her body prickled. Logic told her no one could distinguish her naked form through the camouflage of the curtains, yet his sly smile suggested otherwise.
How would he enter the house without alerting Mrs. Booth to his presence? Unlike his brother, this Darington—younger than Jason by mere minutes—felt no compulsion to make an entrance or otherwise attract anyone’s attention. He moved through life in total contentment as long as he was free to pursue his artistic projects. Those who speculated about Jude’s inclinations toward men obviously didn’t know him the way she did, but he allowed such rumors to be his social smokescreen.
Why wasn’t he attending the bachelor party?
Maria gathered the letters from the floor and stuffed them back into the armoire drawer. She padded into the bathroom to twist the spigots of the tub and then liberally sprinkled the water with her favorite lime-scented bath salts…the ones Jude had given her upon hearing she found floral scents overpowering. Stepping into the frothy water, she listened for his footsteps on the stairs.
Moments after she turned off the water and relaxed in the high porcelain tub, her bedroom door opened. Her visitor could’ve been a cat slipping in on velvet paws—at least until his low chuckle gave him away.
“So you were in the window. Dare I believe you were waiting for me, Maria?”
She glanced up languidly, immersed in the soothing, scented water. “Believe what you will, Jude,” she teased, “but I believed you’d be at the club with your brother, toasting the demise of his freedom.”
Jude sat on the rounded rim, letting his fingers drift through the iridescent froth. “Why would any man choose a stuffy old club that reeks of his forebears’