It was why, all afternoon and then into the evening hours, she’d sat at the window seat overlooking his residence and the streets below, waiting for her family’s return, and thinking of him still.

She’d scanned her gaze over the snow-covered streets, waiting to catch a glimpse not of her returning family . . . but of him.

What had happened to the duke’s wife?

Had he loved her?

If he was brooding and surly, then the obvious answer would be yes.

It would also explain why he wished to be alone.

Those questions had stayed with her until her eyes had grown heavy and she’d fallen asleep on that window seat.

This morning, after she’d washed her face and changed her garments, thoughts of her exchange with the duke lingered still.

And she could not sort out just why he occupied her thoughts.

He’d been rude.

Very, very rude.

The following morning, with the warm cloak she’d found donned, and basket in hand, she made her way outside once more.

This time not to her surly, miserable neighbor’s household.

She’d certainly thought about visiting him again.

Not because she liked his company. She didn’t. And not because at any number of points through the remainder of yesterday afternoon and evening, she’d been riddled with fear at being alone.

Nay, this time, something altogether different motivated her.

As if on cue, her stomach rumbled low and loud, that growling made all the louder in the winter still of London’s now empty streets.

Hunger.

She was deuced hungry.

And despite her expectation that her family would return, they hadn’t, and she’d been left attempting to figure out what in blazes to feed herself.

She might not be capable of lighting a fire, but securing food was something she could do.

Hungry and cold and lonely were perhaps three of the most miserable states, and she’d landed herself in all of them, with the only person who appeared to have remained in London being a man who wanted absolutely nothing to do with her.

His harsh words of yesterday played around her head, his angry snarl better suited for the wolf dog who kept him company.

I don’t want your company, and I don’t want your book. I don’t want anyone here. I want to be left alone, and certainly by you. Am I clear?

“Well, that is fine; I don’t want your company, either,” she muttered under her breath as she traded the cold of her household for the outdoor chill.

She made her way outside and crossed the street, heading on the same walk she’d oft accompanied Cook on as a girl.

Given her position in the McQuoid household, Myrtle was well accustomed to being rejected and unwanted. Nor were those self-pitying thoughts, but rather ones steeped in a well-known and accepted-by-her-long-ago truth.