energy for days, with no appetite for food, or anything in fact. His fingers commenced a rhythmic drum, flowing from one to the other in a line on the leather-clad arm of the chair.
A letter had arrived from his brother, Robert, yesterday, requesting both Edward’s advice and return. He’d been thinking all night over whether he should go. After all he’d heard nothing from Ellen. She wouldn’t even meet his gaze in Madam’s, so rather than torture himself he’d stopped frequenting the place, refusing to sit there and watch Gainsborough paw her. And Edward wasn’t stupid; he knew Gainsborough was staking his former claim, flaunting Ellen and telling Edward she was beyond his reach. But Edward rejected the notion. He was not accepting it.
Damn it. He’d done what she’d asked. He’d stayed away until she deemed it safe, but if she did not contact him soon…
I will what? Kick her door down? Steal her away? Call Gainsborough out? There must be something I can do other than just sit and wait? The tedium of it was excruciating.
“You are not attending, Ed!” His cousin’s sharp tone cut through Edward’s thoughts, abruptly interrupting them. “I’ve been speaking to you for an age. I said, what are your plans for today? I’m going to Manton’s in Dover Street this afternoon, to the shooting gallery, I wondered if you wished to come?”
It was a haunt Gainsborough favoured.
Edward shook his head. “I will probably go to Jackson’s.” The pugilist master’s studio in Bond Street was a good place in which to vent his recent frustration.
“And I shall leave you to it, after yesterday.” Rupert rubbed at his jaw in reminder of the blow he’d taken.
“I apologised, Rupert. I told you, I lost my concentration.”
“Believe me it did not feel as though you were not attending, it felt as though you intended to kill.”
It was true enough. Edward laughed. Gainsborough’s son-in-law had walked through the door and caused a distraction. The blow had been for Gainsborough.
A month ago Edward had prided himself in being level headed. But since Ellen Harding had possessed him, he was someone else, someone he wasn’t comfortable with. He was no longer certain of who he was at all.
He lifted his ankle from his knee, set his foot back on the floor and lifted the other leg, his fingers continuing their rhythm on the arm of the chair.
“For God sake, what is wrong with you, Ed?” his cousin challenged, peering over his newspaper. “You’re fidgeting. I asked you if you wished to meet afterwards.”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’ll do later.”
With a suddenly intent gaze, Rupert folded the paper and threw it aside, leaning forward in his seat. “Ed, is something wrong? You act odder by the day.”
Yes, Edward laughed again, inwardly. He did feel very odd, as though there was a hole in the region of his chest and if he told his cousin he’d fallen head-over-heels-in-love with Gainsborough’s courtesan, Rupert would think him touched in the head. He was mad to love her. He knew that himself. But love her he did. He could not help it, nor deny it any longer. The obsession he had for Ellen Harding had to be love and not just lust. He’d certainly never encountered such all-consuming emotions before.
“Ed! You are wandering off again.”
Edward smiled at his cousin’s expression of genuine concern, “I’m tired, Rupert, that’s all,” lifted his ankle from his knee and set both feet on the floor, then pushed on the arms of the chair to stand. “In fact, I think I’ll go. A drive will clear the cobwebs from my head. I’ll bid you good-day.” He bowed. “Rupert.”
“Ed, for God sake, take care, don’t drive your damned phaeton off the road, you’ve no concentration lately.” Nodding vaguely, Edward walked away and Rupert leaned back in his chair looking exasperated and lifting a hand in parting.
“My Lord.” A young footman stopped Edward in his path to the exit with a bow. Then he held out a piece of folded paper. “I was given this for you.”
Edward felt his heart slam against the wall of his chest and took the note, then discreetly slid it into the breast-pocket of his morning coat, before exchanging it for a coin. “Thank you for your discretion.”
Within minutes, Edward was steering through the streets in his curricle, his mind not at all on the task; the paper burning a hole in his pocket.
He flicked the ribbons and sprung his bays, but the capital’s streets in the afternoon were irritatingly busy with heaving humanity, of all classes. Turning a corner he marginally missed a small boy who’d run across the road, as well as very nearly dislodging the groomsman balancing on the phaeton at the rear. Admitting defeat, Edward reined in the horses and set a more even pace, utterly at odds to the pulsing need for an outright gallop coursing in his blood.
When he finally pulled into Bloomsbury Square, where his brother’s townhouse stood, Edward called back to his groom to take the reins and wait in the street. Then he leapt down, ran up the steps to the door and rapped the knocker impatiently until Jenkins drew it open. Already drawing the letter from his pocket Edward irritably thrust his brother’s butler aside and crossed the chequered marble floor to the drawing room.
His attention on the paper in his hand he was deaf to the butler’s request for his hat and coat and blindly ignored the footman’s bow as he passed. Instead he read, his strides pacing across the room, his heart thumping in his chest.
She proposed a meeting, at one tomorrow, at the gates of Green Park. He looked at the clock. The note had been written yesterday. It was now already nearly twelve.
Thank God I went to White’s this morning.
He squatted down at the hearth, the hem of his coat dragging on the floor, touched the edge of the letter to the flames and watched it begin to burn. He let it fall into the hearth and waited until he knew it was just ash, then walked away.
She had asked him to come alone, not to trust his servants, not even to ride in his own carriage but to take a hackney. He suddenly felt incredibly cold. Perhaps I am insane to get involved in this— involved with her. He knew if he met her again there would be no turning back.
Hell, there was no turning back now. The woman was already too embedded in his blood. Whether he willed it or not, Ellen Harding was a part of his life now—a part of him. He had no choice but to go to her.
~
He’d been waiting ten minutes when he saw her. She was simply and elegantly dressed, her appearance nothing like that of a courtesan. The long dark navy pelisse she wore was to keep her warm in the chill, early March winds. Spring was still as yet unbroken.
The demure garment hung to her ankles, with double breasted buttons across her chest, and an upturned fox fur collar framed her beautiful neck and face. Her hands were within a matching fox fur muff at her waist. The dark navy hat, sitting high on her ebony hair, was decorated with jay’s feathers that swept up from the brim above her left ear. A narrow, navy veil, woven in a fine net, was drawn down over her eyes and nose.
His hands curled into fists inside the pockets of his thick, many-caped greatcoat as he watched her, waiting for her to notice him.
She had thought to hide herself, he guessed, but he would know the curve of her jaw, that mouth, the column of her neck, anywhere, even within a crowd. He had committed it to memory half a dozen times in recent weeks and lain awake night after night recalling every detail.
She looked over her shoulder, glancing back up the street, as if she half expected to be followed. Then she looked to the traffic in the road, waiting until it was clear before she crossed to the park gates. She’d still not seen him.
Within her muff he imagined her hands clasped together, her thumbs circling one another. He’d seen her tendency to fiddle when she stood at Gainsborough’s back. She was forever twisting and turning