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CHAPTER TWO

Robert had been pacing the whole morning.

His footprints were deeply pressed into the Aubusson rug that adorned the drawing room in the home his grandfather had named ‘Stanworth Cottage’.

What it was, was a gentleman's retreat—a place his grandfather and father had brought their mistresses. It was grand, especially for an isolated cottage that rarely saw guests. It boasted four bedchambers, dining and drawing rooms, a large kitchen, an indoor privy, and a small study and library. The servants’ quarters were detached.

The grounds held various gardens—kitchen, pleasure, and courtyard—before they opened up into acres of worked land.

He had ordered his valet, George, to ensure minimal interruption while Eliza was here—only the necessary serving of meals and cleaning.

Running his hand through his hair for the tenth time, he mulled over her response.

It had been short and direct, and rationally, he understood that her coming was a good sign, but her uncharacteristic briefness had worried him.

Had he been too presumptuous? The long looks they had shared at social events had indicated a spark of attraction.

And as guilty as he felt about pining after his dead friend's widow, her letters had indicated when her mourning period had ended.

That news had filled him with hope–and dread.

Dread she would be looking to find a beau to remarry.

But Eliza enjoyed her independence. Her missives were filled with titbits of how she spent her days reading, painting, and doing charitable works.

She seemed content. Still, Robert thought his ongoing lettering brought her a company she enjoyed.

Robert had bought every John Donne book he could over the years and had brought them with him. Gratifying his lust was one thing he would not deny, but he admitted it was not just the promise of her passion that left him wanting–it was her companionship.

The last time he had heard her voice—at the funeral, so sad and forlorn—was not the way he remembered her. He recalled her lyrical tone during the dance they had shared, lilting and sweet. He yearned to hear it again.

Eliza’s response to his invitation had simply been that she would meet him here within fourteen days.

It was only day eleven, and he had paced the time away in anticipation, but his intuition told him this would be the day.

The drawing room had the best view of anyone approaching, so it was here he paced.

He was besieged by emotions, especially guilt.

And he had surmised that he had more than one reason to feel guilty.

Pursuing his friend's widow was causing him angst, but arranging a tryst with Eliza—since that is all it could be—was filling him with remorse.

“And to 'scape stormy days, I choose an everlasting night.”