Page 27

The carriage ride home was a silent, uncomfortable affair.

How dare he assume he can control my actions? I have lived years of my life under the thumb of my father’s wishes. My brother’s wishes. Society’s wishes. Never once have I been free to make choices based on my own wishes.

But she’d done that today. A simple visit to Gunter’s felt like crossing a line.

Despite knowing Edward didn’t want her to venture out alone, despite society deeming such behaviour brazen, and despite even Philippa disapproving of Ivy’s actions because of Olivia’s involvement, she made a choice based on her own judgement.

Certainly, a note had been slipped into her pocket.

And yes, she might have been in some danger, but danger could find a young lady anywhere.

A carriage could lose control on a sunny street in Mayfair, she could slip out of her saddle while riding her horse, fever could sweep through the city, claiming peers and paupers alike.

I can’t live my life constantly fearing all the things that might happen. Past trauma and tragedy have yet to break me. Must I be so afraid of future trauma and tragedy?

‘No,’ she said aloud.

‘Pardon?’ Edward asked.

She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t speaking to you.’

After a protracted moment, Edward nodded. ‘Of course. There are only two of us in this carriage. How silly of me to assume you might be addressing me.’

‘Yes, exactly,’ Ivy agreed.

And what did Philippa wish to speak with him about?

She wouldn’t dare lower herself to ask, though curiosity made it hard to focus on anything else.

Forcing her gaze out of the window, she took in the beautiful summer afternoon.

The ladies of Mayfair were out in full force, no doubt returning home from their social calls.

Ivy determined she would spend the remainder of the carriage ride counting floral hats.

A far better pastime than speaking with the pompous ass of a commissioner.

And it gave her something to watch other than him during their carriage ride home.

Whenever she did look at him, she found her eyes drifting to his mouth, which was neither helpful in maintaining her ire, nor was it beneficial to her overall equanimity.

His lips had firmed into a hard line, and she was not considering how they might feel pressed against her own mouth.

Nor was she imagining how his fingers, which were currently drumming a staccato beat on his muscled thigh, might coast over her skin.

Ivy forced her gaze back to the window once more and resumed counting.

Twelve hats draped in flowers. Thirteen if I count that debutante with those unfortunate drooping daisies.

The carriage barely rolled to a stop before Ivy leaned over and pushed open the door. Not waiting for the driver to clamber down and set the step, she nimbly jumped to the gravel drive and crunched her way to the front stairs.

If Edward protested, she didn’t hear him.

Sailing into the orphanage, Ivy refused to look behind her to see if he followed.

The children would just be finishing their time in the yard.

Ivy made her way through the mansion, letting herself onto the back veranda and gardens beyond.

The sound of laughter and shouting greeted her, as did the scent of honeysuckle and hyacinth.

Once upon a yesteryear, Ivy would have been like one of those ladies walking with a chaperone through Mayfair on her way back to her father’s house after visiting with Millie.

She would be dreading whatever evening activities would be expected of her.

Helping her father host a dinner for important lords, dressing for a ball where she would spend the evening dusting the wall with her gown or hiding away in her room, hoping her father would not visit in the darkest hours of early morning.

Now, she was the headmistress of an orphanage and planning an evening of reading to the children, retiring to her clean little bedroom with her fluffy kitten, and disappearing into her penny dreadful while sipping a cup of hot chocolate. Free from fearing any unexpected visitor.

But what about expected visitors? What about invited visitors?

Because even feeling frustrated with Edward hadn’t dissipated the attraction simmering beneath the surface of her skin.

Tension had been building within Ivy since Widow Lovemore’s ball, and her argument with Edward in Philippa’s parlour only drew the strings tighter.

Her anger toward him strangely highlighted his physical appeal. Which made very little sense.

How can a woman want to smack a man and kiss him at the same time?

After their conversation at the ball, Ivy found herself thinking about kissing far more than usual.

That’s because I never used to think about kissing at all.

Now, it popped into her mind at the most inopportune times. When she was lying in bed trying to go to sleep. Tallying the weekly budget. Even during their carriage ride home.

And a lot of good all this imagining is doing me.

So instead, Ivy spent the remainder of the day focusing on something that did make sense.

Taking care of the children. She didn’t see Edward when the girls and boys traipsed in from their playtime to tackle their chores.

She didn’t see him in the dining hall at dinner when Sarah sat on one side of her and Henry sat on the other, pouring her water whenever her cup reached halfway empty.

She didn’t see him in the ballroom when she read the children the next chapter of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall .

Not that she was looking for him. In point of fact, she was glad he wasn’t skulking around.

The last person she wanted to see was Edward Worthington.

Take your perfectly shaped mouth, strong thighs, smouldering glare, and stupid glossy black hair, ball it up, shove it in your pipe, and smoke it.

When the children were abed and she was bringing her pot of hot chocolate up from the kitchen, the wavering light peeking out from under his door caused her slippered feet to pause.

Should she check on him? Had he even eaten?

It’s not my responsibility to ensure he eats. I’m not his mother. I’m certainly not his wife.

The very thought caused a flutter in her chest. A rather fizzing kind of flutter.

Ridiculous. The last thing I want is to be married.

Her heart thudded painfully.

Stupid organ. What could you possibly know about anything?

And now, she was arguing with her heart.

Brilliant.

Lifting her chin, she started to walk away when Edward’s door flew open.

* * *

Ivy jumped back, bobbling her burden. With fast hands and determination only melted chocolate could inspire, she managed to right the tray.

‘What are you doing?’ she hissed, mindful there were twenty-seven children supposedly sleeping. The last thing she needed was to wake them or, more likely, pique their curiosity and have them pressing little ears against the door to better hear the raised voices echoing down the hall.

‘I was coming to find you,’ Edward hissed back.

‘Why? I’m going to bed.’

Edward took the tray from her hands. ‘I need to show you something.’ He turned and walked back into his room. With her tea tray.

With my bloody hot chocolate. Blackguard.

Ivy stormed after him, shutting the door behind her so the children were less likely to hear her blistering tirade against the thieving scoundrel.

‘That’s my hot chocolate.’ She pointed to the pot as Edward carefully placed the tray on his rumpled bed.

There was a decided lack of space for adequate furniture in this room.

With Millie’s contribution of a proper mattress and bed frame dominating the left side, Edward had managed to squeeze in a small desk and straight-back chair against the right wall.

The desk was littered with papers, and a small lamp balanced precariously on the edge.

Ivy cocked her head at the new furniture, momentarily distracted from reclaiming her evening treat. ‘Did you take the desk and chair from the schoolroom?’

‘Yes. Henry helped me move it in here while the children were completing their chores earlier. Awfully kind of the lad. I didn’t think you would mind.’

Ivy shrugged. ‘I don’t. It’s just… Well. I’m sorry there aren’t better accommodations for you.’

Why am I apologising to him? He stole my hot chocolate!

Because looking around the small space, it was glaringly obvious that the Commissioner of Scotland Yard, a man holding the title of a bloody duke who had his own Mayfair mansion no doubt replete with servants, a butler, and many fine desks, was sacrificing his comforts.

And for what? To protect Ivy? She hardly merited such effort.

‘I am quite content, I assure you.’ He tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers, looking every bit a man at ease.

While the man always presented himself as neat as a pin, his room revealed a much more chaotic side to Edward Worthington.

His jacket hung haphazardly on the desk chair, books were stacked in leaning piles on the floor, and his boots were toppled over each other, half tucked under the bed.

Despite the mess, the entire room smelled of clean linen, coffee, and Jamaican spice.

Ivy belatedly realised an incredibly important fact.

I am alone, with Edward, in his bedroom. And he’s not even wearing boots.

Glancing down, she noticed he had remarkably well-shaped toes.

Dancing devils. I just strolled into a man’s bedroom and shut the door behind me. What have I done?

Edward must have seen her eyes widen because he leveraged the one thing that might keep her in his room. ‘I promise I shall return your hot chocolate, and you can leave, but first will you please look at something with me?’

‘I shouldn’t be in here. Alone. With you. You’re not even wearing stockings!’ She couldn’t stop staring at his feet.

‘They are only bare feet. It isn’t as if I’m without my shirt or trousers.’

The very idea!