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CHAPTER ELEVEN

A lbion grasped the crumpling paper tissue around a bouquet of daisies and fresh pink carnations which the florist had decisively assured him were appropriate for a gentleman to present to a lady he intended to marry.

Bound with ribbon, Daisy might carry them easily in hand or tucked under her arm, whichever she preferred.

But were they sufficiently romantic? For all Albion prided himself on the dexterity with which he navigated London Society, he did not know.

And anything Albion thought he knew evaporated like water on a hot plate when he saw Daisy, exquisite in a peach blossom walking gown trimmed with delicate white lace, her gorgeous hair tucked under a matching bonnet.

“Lady Diana Stewart,” he called.And then, seeing her loyal maid behind her. "And Miss Isabel."

“Lord Albie Higgins!”

The brightness in Diana’s eyes brought to mind the wildest fantasies he’d indulged at night.

He fought to maintain a proper distance while wanting nothing more than to pull her to him and cover her with kisses.

Her attire was more than respectable, yet the low thrum of desire stirred, and he forced his claws to remain out, not retract wantonly in her presence.

“My Daisy.”

He presented the bouquet with a flourish, and she pressed the flowers first to her nose and then to her chest. “Why, you’ve even included my namesakes.

How delightful. The weather is certainly fair, and it is pleasant to be out of doors, but we must tour the collection as well.

Would you prefer to start with the gardens or the interior today, Lord Albie? ”

Albion forced his gaze away from Daisy to regard Montagu House.

Though grander in scope than the other residences around the square, it was constructed in the same pleasing, simple style.

The surrounding grounds were not wild Orcan shrubbery but immaculately manicured: fresh grass surrounded by flower beds abundant with bright daffodils and tulips.

Cast stone statues of voluptuous Greek goddesses representing the four seasons stood watch at each corner of the diamond-shaped lawn.

“Let’s see the Rosetta Stone first. Afterward, we might tour the grounds.”

“An agreeable plan. Will you tend to my flowers, Izzie?” She handed the daisies and carnations to her flustered maid before dispatching Miss Isabel to the natural history exhibits on the upper floor.

His heart dropped as he’d imagined she would carry the flowers herself.

“I only want my hands free,” she said, catching his expression and intuiting his thoughts most impressively.

“I see. And here I thought they weren’t sufficiently romantic.”

“No, you did well on that front. Shall we, Albie?”

She smiled coyly at him, seemingly unfazed by the anxiety that afflicted him. Should he take her arm in his? That seemed appropriate, though not as decisively appropriate as the bouquet. Yet she had mentioned wanting her hands free.

Must the English ways be so damnably complicated?

Daisy stood slightly in front of him, and so, separate but together, they ascended the white stone steps to the main gallery inside.

The walls were twice Albion’s height, which was saying quite a bit for a structure in London, with long windows to allow as much daylight in as possible, much like Dunc had his house constructed.

From what he understood, natural light slowed the decay of the museum’s precious items, which he had to admit constituted a far grander collection than any he’d seen in the Hidden Realm.

They strode past terracotta sculptures and other such relics of the ancient world.

“We should head directly for the Rosetta Stone,” Daisy told him.

“Fortunate discovery that,” he said. “The hieroglyphics deciphered and all.”

“Do I detect a hint of bruised pride that humans decrypted the archaic language before orcs?”

“Oh, we have our mysteries from the past to solve.” He swung his hands behind his back to steer around the chattering crowd headed for the collection’s most prized object.

“Have you any collection of the like in the Hidden Realm?” Daisy asked, easily keeping pace.

“We preserve relics from the time when Roman traders attempted contact. And older than that, still. Some dated before our ancestors split from the Orkadian culture in the northern islands. Human archaeologists have recently designated that epoch the ‘Stone Age.’ But we boast of no museums as memorable as this place.” He gestured to the surrounding room, its high domed ceilings and magnificent windows.

“We are a simple people, I suppose. Duncan would say there is honor in that.”

“I am inclined to agree with him.”

He waited for her to expound on that comment. When she said nothing more, he settled for giving her a sly smile as they joined the queue to see the museum’s most precious artifact up close.

When finally granted space up front, he bent over to examine the rectangular stone, gashed in one corner, angled in its metal case. Sunlight illuminated the parallel hieroglyphs etched on the surface.

“I have now visited thrice,” Daisy said, taking advantage of one of the magnifying glasses on a low shelf for the benefit of guests. “Yet it remains magical.”

She grasped the magnifying glass’s leather handle and examined the inscriptions, which were smaller than he had expected. Albie hunched over her shoulder, spotting a graceful, long-necked bird and what looked like a sailing barge.

“For all the tribulations of our time, I am grateful to live in an era when all might view such wonders.”

“It is a wonder, indeed.”

Mindful of the queue behind them, Daisy placed the magnifying glass back on its shelf and moved away from the exhibit.

His hand grazed the back of her gown as he gently steered her around the bustling queue.

Instinctively, a few of the visitors stepped back.

Some stared outright, then averted their gazes when his eyes happened to look down and catch theirs.

Was this what Duncan and their late father experienced when they first traveled to London?

He fleetingly sympathized with the discomfort they must have felt, even if those two were far too prideful to admit as much.

Shaking this melancholic thought from his mind, he progressed with Daisy to an exhibit of vases from Etruscan antiquity: orange-umber etchings of women in togas and laurel leaf crowns.

“Glad as I am to see the famed rock at last,” Albion said. “We are meeting under greatly changed circumstances. You told me you had questions. I imagine you have even more of them now.”

Daisy moved to a terracotta urn. She looked around to ensure they had some privacy.

“We should attend to our living accommodations,” she said.

She worried her necklet, running her finger along its velvety surface and the single pearl suspended from it. He longed to trace the elegant lines of her skin, hesitating and exploring further down until a moan caught in her throat.

For all of heaven and earth, his claws had a life of their own now, retracting so that he might touch her without fear of causing injury.

His body had hardened and heated at once at the thought of drawing her close and kissing passionately, feeling their bodies open to one another with the pleasure of such intimacy.

He required a moment to steady himself.

“The Albany doesn’t countenance women or children,” he told her, in a voice that hit the mark at some point between the modish sprout he played for Society and the gent he wished to be for her.

“Seeing how they intend for the place will appeal to young male rascals. Have you an inclination to a certain area of the city?”

“I leave that to your discretion. I meant in the townhouse.”

“Our rooms, I take it?”

She bit her lip and looked down, now fussing with a small rip in her gloves.

Albion wielded all his power of will not to hold her hand or stroke her waist, as a gent might do freely with a lady back in his homeland.

The luscious scent of Diana’s citrus perfume, her appealing curiosity and lively intellect, and her curvaceous figure—evident regardless of her modest attire—all seemed spells cast to enchant.

“We shall reside in separate suites,” he said. “I’ve no call to pressure you. You decide whether or not to allow visiting privileges.”

“I am given to understand that the Prince Regent and Princess Caroline live separate lives. She has made hers on the continent. I want to assure you I shall never be a burden should you want to part ways … and if you were to continue relations of a more intimate nature with others, I would not protest.”

“Is it not too much to ask that you feel some measure of jealousy at that notion?”

She touched her hair nervously. “Maybe it is one of those matters that is best not spoken of outright, but I want you to know you have my blessing.”

“How astounding.” Albion fussed with his cravat, a gesture thoroughly uncalled for as he had it knotted as impeccably as ever.

Was it possible she had some beau or another he did not know about? Some penniless prizefighter bruised from his time in the ring? A rake with a poor reputation her family deemed unworthy of her? Naturally, the scoundrel would be unworthy of her. Albion already hated the man.

Still, an unknown paramour seemed unlikely, given that he had not heard any tittle-tattle to that effect. It was only that this unexpected turn to the conversation threw his thoughts into disarray.

Albion was not yet willing to reveal how powerfully her mere presence moved him. He refused to let her see him rattled.He swung his hands behind his back, so she could not witness their anxious movements. “You seem to have given this a great deal of thought.”

“You would be well within your rights to do so, my friend,” she told him. “That’s all I meant to say. I did not intend to cause any distress.”

So his attempts to hide his concern were futile. Had she not said she preferred plain talk? “Will you ask for the same privilege?”