It was a fitting place, she supposed, to bid adieu to her conceited quest, because here was where it had started. Not that she hadn’t always been a bit vain and more than a bit ambitious, even as a child, but prestige and wealth hadn’t been her only goals then, or even her primary goals.
She’d had a fierce pride in her intellectual capacity and planned to read both classics and mathematics at Girton College. But then, she’d accompanied her parents to Lyndhurst Hall and was awed into speechlessness by the beauty and grandeur of the place. She especially fell in love with the lush orangerie, a spectacular two-story glass structure that ran the entire length of one wing of the house, full of rare species from the tropics that luxuriated a deep green even in the full of winter. After that, there was nothing to do but become the next mistress of this majestic place, and be accorded the same reverence that greeted the Duchess of Arlington wherever the latter went.
Today she paid no mind to the orangerie. She missed her Will already—he’d left Lyndhurst Hall at the break of dawn to arrange for a marriage license from the Bishop of London, so they could get married on the day she was originally to marry Stuart and enjoy the wedding that they’d planned together. She paced on the balcony, full of energy and excitement, though she’d had barely an hour of sleep—she and Will had stayed up much of the night whispering to each other and giggling like children.
A great deal of it was gossiping, the kind of juicy, no-holds-barred gossip that could only be enjoyed with someone one trusted completely. But they also submitted to a few serious minutes of planning for their married life.
As it turned out, Stuart had been about to sponsor Will to Inner Temple—Will had started as a secretary, but had quickly caught on to the intricacies of law.
“But we can’t in good conscience have him be your sponsor anymore,” she’d pointed out anxiously.
“Not to worry. I’m sure the dowager duchess will strong-arm someone else to sponsor me—she was the one who found employment for me when I returned to England.”
“Why would she take such interest in you?” she’d asked. “And come to think of it, what are you doing here and why did she allow someone of your womanizing ways to set foot in her house?”
“Visiting her, of course. She’s Matthew’s godmother and she has turned a blind eye to my womanizing ways ever since I allowed myself to fall into poverty and disgrace for Matthew’s sake.”
Lizzy had shaken her head. “Why is every man I know indebted to that woman?”
“That’s why you want to be her; so you too can lord it over all the men in England,” he’d said with a teasing affection.
“How true,” she’d admitted. “Now I will have to find a different way to harvest wonder and admiration from the general populace. I think I will attend Girton and become a fearsome scholar after all, one of the finest minds of my generation.”
“I think that is a splendid idea.” He smiled. “Besides, there’s nothing like shagging on Plato.”
“Or Pythagorus.”
“Or Pythagorus. How could I have forgotten good old Pythagorus?”
She inhaled the mossy scent of the orangerie and smiled hugely at the memories.
“Have I caught you in a good mood?”
It was Stuart, standing at the door.
She cleared her throat and pulled herself into a semblance of serenity. “Yes, you have.”
“Sorry I kept you waiting. I passed Her Grace on my way and she wanted to speak to me.” He came to where she stood and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ve been worried about you—you haven’t left your house for a while. I hope I’m not to blame, for overwhelming you with wedding preparations.”
“I’m quite completely and perfectly fine now. I have never been better, in fact.” Except for her nagging concern about him. He deserved much better from her. And now he would go into another frantic session of the Parliament without a wife to look after him. If only she could be sure that he would be as happily settled as she, then—
“Good,” he said. “Because there is something I need to tell you.”
His tone caught her attention. There was something unsettling about it. And the way he looked—she’d seen that particular look on him only when he conferred with his colleagues in the House of Commons on intractably thorny issues. “Yes?”
He took a deep breath. “I have fallen in love with someone.”
She wasn’t sure she understood him. She stared at him. “With whom?”
“With Madame Durant,” he said, his tone clear, without hesitation or shame.
Her ears rang a little. “Madame Durant. You mean your cook?”
“Yes.”
“Are you absolutely certain?” It was an asinine question, but she did not see it at all of her very proper, very straitlaced Stuart.
“Quite.”
“This is…” She could not conceive that a man such as he would even take notice of his cook, let alone spend any time with her. Let alone fall in love.
In love.