When he came back and asked what she had been up to, he would be able to leaf through her life page by page. See everything he had missed. And then they would close that book and leave it behind because the rest of her life was something they’d share together.

  “Don’t tell me,” Grandmother said in disgust.

  Priscilla’s cheeks flushed. Her face had given her away.

  “He’s coming back,” she said firmly. “And even if he doesn’t, I’m still going.”

  Her new life, her exciting, fabulous, adventurous life, was waiting for her. She just had to get there.

  “He’s not coming back,” Grandmother said flatly.

  “He is,” Priscilla said. “They both are. They promised.”

  Mother and Grandmother had both been perfect as a portrait, and they had been left behind. Priscilla had been a curious, exuberant child, and she had been left behind. But that was then. Things were different. She wasn’t a baby anymore.

  The thought that Papa and Grandfather weren’t waiting for her, weren’t hoping to see her, weren’t anxiously awaiting her arrival was too awful to consider.

  But even if Grandmother was right, it didn’t matter. Priscilla was an adult. Once her inheritance was in hand, she wouldn’t need anyone. She could become an intrepid adventurer with or without her father and grandfather.

  Once they saw her bravery and mettle, they would be the ones who were sorry they’d ever left her behind.

  “What do you have that they want?” Grandmother asked with a sigh.

  Perhaps very little. But at the least, she would not be a cross to bear.

  She’d been managing her pin money since she started receiving it at fifteen. The accounts at the linen-drapers and other shops were in Grandfather’s name, and she supposed her annual fifty guinea allowance was meant for pleasures and fripperies. It was twice what the lead housekeeper earned and equal to the butler, but far more than Priscilla required.

  Instead, she’d been saving half of her allowance every year. It was now up to two hundred pounds—about half what she’d earn per year from the interest on her trust. Not riches, although she believed Papa and Grandfather would be proud of her resourcefulness.

  But she didn’t do it for them. Those two hundred pounds had been set aside to send letters and gifts home to Grandmother, once Priscilla finally could set out for her real life.

  “You think too hard,” Grandmother said as if there could be no worse flaw. “You concentrate, concentrate, concentrate, but on all the wrong things.”

  Priscilla shook her head. Grandmother didn’t know her. Never had.

  And yet Priscilla could not deny a niggling worm of truth in the accusation. She longed to believe she was an open, happy-go-lucky wild thing who couldn’t wait to break out of the strictures of society.

  Truth was, she excelled at its game. So much so, she’d woven an even more intricate game on top, just to have more rules.

  Minus a thousand points, she told herself sourly.

  “Your father and your grandfather are never coming back,” Grandmother said, without heat this time. “They don’t think about us. It’s time you think for yourself.”

  Priscilla had been thinking. Thinking was the only thing she could do, for most of her long, lonely life. Sit in her room and think-think-think about what she would do and where she would go the moment she was free of it.

  But Grandmother was all she had left, and Priscilla didn’t want to argue.

  “Have a good night, Grandmother.”

  Priscilla plucked the brown-paper parcel from the tea table and swept from the parlor without waiting for a response.

  Experience told her it would not have been forthcoming.

  She stalked to her bedchamber and sat on the first stool with stiff legs. Hands shaking, she pushed the twine off the corners and unwrapped the package. A wistful smile touched her lips. Thaddeus understood her more than any other.

  Two travel books on Africa. Three different maps. And a small, scuffed journal.

  Frowning, she lifted the journal and opened it to the first page:

  * * *

  Miss Priscilla Weatherby,

  Lady Adventurer

  * * *

  (Working draft)

  She slammed the book closed and pressed it to her pounding chest.

  He wasn’t going to write a biography about her. He’d already started. It was right here in her hands.

  She opened it back up, but the pages were impossible to read with the blurring of the words. She swiped at her eyes with her fist and focused on the first sentence. She was good at focusing. Thaddeus had done this.

  For her.

  When she reached the last page, her tears were gone but the hole in her chest had grown larger.

  He was extraordinarily talented. Observant, insightful, witty. He made her seem strong and sure, fresh and fascinating. This, despite a life of precisely nothing. He would be a phenomenal biographer. A household name.

  And he was obsessed with her… for now.

  No muse lasted forever. What would happen when someone or something better came along? Because it always, always did. If her family had taught her anything, it was that love was irrelevant. The shinier object was the one men chased. No matter how much they’d once loved the jewel they left behind.

  Maybe “men” weren’t the problem. Maybe it was Priscilla who was leave-behind-able. A flash in the pan; exciting for a moment and then just as quickly forgotten. Not good enough to want to keep around forever.

  Priscilla pushed the journal aside and went to release her parrot from his cage.

  She didn’t need a man. She needed adventure. She had herself, and she had Koffi.

  “Tea and cake?” he said hopefully.

  She fumbled for the snuff box and gave him a treat. He deserved it.

  Even if no one came for her, the two of them were going anyway. Priscilla had made a promise. Others might break theirs, but she did not.

  She held out a finger for him to perch on.

  “Don’t worry,” she told him. “If you leave me when we get there, I promise not to cry.”

  He ignored her finger and flew high overhead where she could not reach him.

  “Goodbye, my love!” he squawked. “Goodbye!”

  She closed the snuff box and picked up her stack of maps and travel journals. If even Koffi was ready to leave… She should prepare herself for that day, too.

  Chapter 10

  The moment he’d sent the parcel, Thad regretted allowing his manuscript out of his sight. It wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready. Perhaps he never would be. Why, oh why, had he sent that package? Of all the dunderheaded gifts a man could give a woman…

  He had spent the night far too tense and jittery to do anything so calm as sleep.

  The morning had not fared any better. Five o’clock in the morning was far too early for house calls, and dawn two hours later wasn’t much of an improvement.

  Breakfast? How could he? His stomach was too busy doing somersaults to welcome toast or even tea. And still the hands of the clock moved with excruciating languor. Inch by inch. Tick by tock. He had to get that manuscript back.

  Perhaps she hadn’t read it yet.

  That was the one thought that helped him survive the horrible not-knowing.

  Biographies were his passion, not hers. She loved adventure. She wanted to go to Africa. Surely she’d spent the night hunched over a very practical guidebook to the western equatorial states, rather than waste time browsing a dog-eared journal’s handwritten twaddle.

  Eight o’clock, nine o’clock, ten. Ten and one minute. What imbecile had decreed morning calls could only be placed from eleven to three, and preferably in the afternoon? Did society not understand the definition of “morning?”

  That was it. He was going now. By the time he rounded his carriage and drove from Jermyn Street to Grosvenor Square, the clock would be at least… ten-fifteen. Close enough.

  What he needed was a distraction. Something so cute and cuddly and irresistible, no one would even notice him shoving his manuscript inside his jacket and running off.

  Thus decided, he gathered Wednesday into her basket and hurried down the stairs to the street below.

  At this hour, the streets weren’t crowded. The mile from his home to Priscilla’s sailed by in a trice. Before his bay could even come to a proper stop, Thad was already leaping out of the carriage.

  To his surprise, not one but two footmen rushed out to greet him, relieving him of his horse and gig as if disheveled young men with shaking hands and wild bloodshot eyes always dropped by Mayfair at this ungodly hour of the morning.

  This had to be the grandmother’s doing, he realized. She had not been subtle in her desire for a marital outcome.

  Right now, all Thad wanted to see was his manuscript.

  He raised his hand toward the knocker.

  The butler flung open the door. “Mr. Middleton, right this way if you please.”

  Thad hadn’t given his card. Or mentioned which Weatherby woman he was hoping to see. He hoped he hadn’t just walked into a trap.

  When he entered the parlor, it looked much the same as the last time he’d seen it. Which was to say, little was visible at all. Heavy curtains blocked every trace of the early spring sunshine, and a sullen, listless fire did little to brighten the heavy interior.

  “Grandmother,” Priscilla was saying, as she tucked a stray tendril behind her ear. “I know you worry about me. I worry about you, too. I promise I won’t forget you.”

  “You forget yourself,” Mrs. Weatherby snapped. “A young lady’s duty is to wed.”

  Both of them jerked startled faces toward Thad at his unexpected arrival.

  “Er,” he said, and made as elegant a leg as possible, given the oversized basket hanging from one arm.

  “I suppose he’s here to see your parrot.” Mrs. Weatherby sniffed as if this tendency alone was enough to no longer make him suitor material.

  “Actually,” he began, but it was already too late.

  Mrs. Weatherby pushed herself out of her chair, shoved past her granddaughter, and left the parlor completely.

  “She must… really hate your parrot,” Thad ventured.

  “It’s not Koffi,” Priscilla said with a sigh. “She’s still hoping you’ll become overset by male passion, ravish me on the parlor floor, and be forced to make an honest woman of me.”

  “I do feel the stirrings of unbridled male passion,” he said gravely.

  Priscilla arched a brow.

  “And… that is a nice carpet,” he continued as if weighing his options.

  A laugh burst from her as she met him in the center of the parlor. “Why are you here?”

  “To fetch my journal,” he said at once. “It’s mine. And a mistake. I didn’t mean to send it. It’s just a draft. It needs polishing. Possibly by being tossed into a fire. I even brought ammunition in case we need to work out a trade. It never should have—”

  She threw her arms about him and silenced him with a kiss.

  “You daft man,” she said when she paused for breath. “Your talent is astonishing. I loved your manuscript. It’s delightful and flattering and makes even my life sound riveting. You’re going to be the most famous biographer England has ever seen.”

  “I don’t know if I can handle anyone else reading my work,” he groaned.

  “First,” she said with a laugh, “that’s what publishing is. Second, why are you writing biographies, if not to share your wonderful stories with the world?”

  “Distemper?” he guessed. “Sometimes when I’m gassy, the most absurd fancies come to mind—”

  “Thaddeus,” she interrupted, her eyes warm and sincere. “You have talent. You should use it. What are you waiting for?”

  “Fate?” He lifted his palms. That was what he was always waiting on. Destiny to ride in on a pale horse and sweep him into his future.

  “You are the one who determines your fate,” she said firmly.

  “Actually,” he explained, “that’s the opposite of what ‘fate’ means—”

  “Fate isn’t life,” she interrupted, her gaze intense. “Fate is waiting around for the future to come to you, rather than going out and making it happen. Fate is in the palm of your hands. Your very lovely, talented hands.”

  “Talented in many ways,” he assured her. “Would you believe I can tie a neckcloth without aid of a valet? Perhaps instead of being a biographer, I could become a professional cravat knotter, traveling from coast to coast to assist less dexterous gentlemen in—”

  “Actually,” she said, her eyes bright and intense, “with your love for meeting new people, I’m surprised your first love isn’t travel. The world must be full of stories you could tell.”

  “It is,” he agreed. “Everyone has an untold story. I could spend the rest of my life writing biographies without ever leaving London.”

  When her smile wobbled, he realized she hadn’t been thinking of far-flung biographies, but whether there was any chance for their futures to intersect.

  He didn’t need to leave London, though he wouldn’t mind doing so if it meant more time with her. Any holiday would be more enjoyable with Priscilla at his side.

  But he wouldn’t want to give up home altogether. He liked having a familiar place to return to. A shelf where his journals belonged, a comfortable chair before the fire, a favorite view from his balcony.

  He’d been hoping to share that with his wife, rather than abandon it to try and keep her.

  “The truth is…” he began.

  He was saved from having to say what they both already knew by a sudden explosion of activity in the basket under his arm.

  “What,” she asked politely, “is that?”

  “My kitten,” he announced, as if even Brummell would not leave the house without a rakishly angled cat on his shoulder.

  Priscilla stared at him in confusion. “Your what?”

  He lifted up a corner of the lid.

  A tiny, black-and-white paw poked out.

  “Kitten,” he repeated brightly. “I brought Wednesday to meet Saturday. Or Konan to meet Koffi. It’s not every day I get to mix up languages and days of the week with one introduction.”

  “You brought a cat,” she said slowly, “to meet my bird.”

  “Wednesday is a genteel cat,” he assured her. “Very genteel. The genteelest.”

  Priscilla narrowed her eyes in warning. “If I see a single claw anywhere near my parrot…”

  “No claws,” Thad whispered to the basket.

  The tiny paw disappeared under the lid.

  “I’m warning you,” Priscilla told Thad, then turned toward the corridor.

  He followed her to the drawing room where Koffi lived and set his basket on the floor.

  Priscilla walked not to the cage, but to the bell pull.

  He blinked in surprise. It was a little late to prevent their many stolen kisses.

  “Summoning a chaperone?” he asked.

  “Guards,” she replied. “I trust you, but I’ve never trusted Wednesdays.”

  A hesitant maid appeared in the corridor and wrung her hands just outside the threshold. “Mrs. Weatherby said…”

  “To let Mr. Middleton ravish me,” Priscilla concluded drily. “Duly noted. You can be dismissed if any bosoms start heaving. Meanwhile, he’s about to let the cat out of the bag. If it attacks Koffi… hit Mr. Middleton with a skillet.”

  The maid sent her startled gaze toward Thad.

  “Fair enough,” he assured her. “Mostly because I see you’ve forgotten your skillet.”

  He sat down and removed the lid of the basket.

  Wednesday immediately crawled up to the edge and sent delighted glances about the new foreign playground around her. She tumbled out of the basket with glee, rolling over to rub her spine against random spots on the carpet as if in search of the most comfortable corner in the room.

  “It’s… a kitten,” the maid said.

  “Her name is Wednesday,” Thad said with affection. “Very fierce. The sort who might murder hapless pigeons one day. But I’ve spoken to her very firmly about our peace treaty with African grey parrots, and she assures me she understands.”

  “She’d better,” Priscilla said darkly, and unlocked Koffi’s cage.

  He shot out at once, straight toward Wednesday, causing Thad to scramble to his feet in alarm.

  Wednesday rolled onto her back and batted her little kitten paws in the air.

  Startled, Koffi veered back up toward the ceiling in order to examine the newcomer from the safety of a curtain rod.

  Having lost interest, Wednesday sprang upright and began prancing around the raised circular edge of the center carpet. Claws on wood. Paws on carpet. Claws on wood. Paws on carpet.

  Stealthily, Koffi took another dive at the usurper.

  Wednesday rolled to her back and batted a front paw in the air.

  Koffi immediately changed course, choosing a different window on which to perch.

  Wednesday started licking the closest bookshelf.

  Priscilla looked at Thad.

  He looked at her.

  Koffi swooped in again, more flamboyantly this time.

  Wednesday flipped over, her hindquarters propped up by a shelf and her head lolling on the floor. She batted a paw toward the air.

  Koffi rose to perch on the closest window.

  “I think they’re… playing?” the maid ventured.

  “I think so, too.” Priscilla joined Thad on the settee. “Only you would have a kitten as friendly and lovable as you are.”

  He paused in the act of putting an arm about her shoulder.

  Love.

  Although she’d clearly meant to compliment his kitten in an affectionate way rather than a romantic one, Thad’s feelings toward Priscilla were not nearly so sanguine.

  He loved her.

  Affectionate love, romantic love, let’s-get-naked-now love. All of it.

  He could absolutely imagine the fairy-tale. Star-crossed love and a splendid wedding. A cozy cottage and holidays abroad. A cat, a parrot, a baby or three. A house full of love and romance and laughter.

 

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