Val growled and turned once more to go.

And this time, as he reached for the door handle, she didn’t call out.

She didn’t attempt to stop him.

There wasn’t that small voice, and that pitiable “please” begging for him to stay.

Val stopped so suddenly he rocked on his heels. He stared at the oak panel, willing himself to step through, to keep on going.

But for all those silent urgings, he remained unable to leave.

He turned.

Myrtle stood, and with her diminutive height, the slender slip of a young lady was swallowed by that velvet cloak. She looked impossibly small.

But her shoulders remained proudly erect and thrown back. Her chin lifted, and in her bearing, she may as well have been a warrior queen refusing to bow down to invading forces.

He pointed a finger at her. “Fine. I’ll remain outside the kitchens, while you . . . while you . . .” Only he couldn’t get the word out, because not for the first or even the second or third time that day, a mental image was called forth of her body divested of clothes and on display before him, naked.

His breathing grew shallow and ragged in his own ears.

“Bathe?” she supplied, her brow creased.

“Y-yes,” he croaked, pointing her way again. “That. When you’re done bathing, and . . . and . . .”

“Dressed?”

“Yes, that, too. I’m leaving.”

And when he left this time, it was done between them. This would be the last he saw of her, and soon he’d forget her.

Because there would be no reason for him to continue to be around, and no good could come of it.

Nay, she’d be relegated to a distant corner of his mind . . . forgotten.

Only, as he quickly let himself out of the kitchens and stood in the hall, Val couldn’t shake the terrifying thought that it was going to be nigh impossible to forget a woman like Myrtle McQuoid.

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

With her first London Season approaching, Myrtle had given much thought to the man she’d one day wed.

She’d not let herself think much about what that still nameless and faceless stranger looked like.

Oh, based on both her banishment from the family and her lessons at Mrs. Belden’s, she knew what was expected of her: she’d marry well and swiftly so that her parents could be free of her a second time—a final time. They, along with the rest of the world, expected her—like all ladies—to behave and be proper and dull and lifeless.

What she had often considered was what he’d be like.

He’d be charming, and ready with a jest.

He’d be given to an easy smile and would laugh big and heartily, as her father and brothers did.

And, of course, he’d read Jane Austen—both of her works.