“Books?” Julian noted. “That doesn’t seem very romantic.”

“That would depend on what they are.” She withdrew the novels and read off the titles, “Pride and Prejudice, Northanger Abbey, Emma, Mansfield Park, Sense and Sensibility, and Persuasion.”

“The complete works of Jane Austen,” he murmured. “I stand corrected. This fellow is a regular Casanova.”

“And that’s not all.” Mena held a card between her fingers, before reading it aloud. “Even the most well-written novel cannot compare to the love I feel for you. Only six days remain.”

Julian winced. “It appears that I may have a bit of competition for your attentions.”

“Don’t be silly.” Mena put the books back in the box, along with the card. “This person is likely only playing some sort of lark.”

He frowned. “Why do you think that? Can’t you believe that someone truly cares for you, Mena?”

She turned to face him, her expression set. “Not a complete stranger, no. And certainly not someone who doesn’t have the courage to tell me how they feel in person.”

“It may not be a stranger. Haven’t you considered any possibilities yet?”

She thought of the list she’d tried to start, whereas her mind was a complete blank. “I haven’t given it that much consideration.”

“Perhaps you should.”

Mena put her hands on her hips. “For someone who just mentioned that they had a bit of rivalry on their hands, you’re rather eager for me to find out who my possible suitor could be.”

He dared to wink at her. “That’s only so I can pummel them for daring to outwit me.”

Day 8

While Mena wouldn’t have minded letting Julian linger a bit longer, and repeat their actions from earlier, she decided that it was for the best if he didn’t stay overnight. She didn’t wish to shock Marigold should she come by for an impromptu visit, only to find her mother in flagrante delicto with another man.

At this point, she wasn’t even sure how to introduce Julian. He might have become her lover as of last night, but she wasn’t sure that was a relationship she wanted to pursue. Granted, her parents weren’t alive any longer, so they wouldn’t be here to witness how far she might have fallen from the pedestal of respectability she’d worked for years to maintain. Then again, she was actually starting to feel as if she was living her life instead of letting it pass her by.

If Julian had taught her anything since his arrival, it was that she still had plenty of good years left. The question was, did she intend to spend them all with him as his mistress? In truth, she didn’t even know how long he planned to stay in London. She was under the impression that he was only here on business, and once that was concluded, who was to say he wouldn’t be sailing back to America?

Until then, she still had the transformation of her townhouse to oversee. She still had the attic to complete, but at least new drapes and carpet had been ordered for the library, along with several new novels. So what was next?

She stared at one door she’d been reluctant to enter for the past three years, although the servants went in and out of the master’s suite quite often on her instruction. There was no need for it to be ignored just because she didn’t like to venture inside. Then again, it was where she had been summoned whenever Laurence had his marital urges. After sharing a bed with Julian the night before, she certainly wasn’t comfortable reliving her years of intimacy with the earl.

Mena’s hand was on the doorknob, and with a deep breath, she forced herself to walk inside. The bed where Laurence had taken his last breath still looked like it did when he’d been alive. The only difference was that she didn’t dread standing here. Laurence had never been unkind to her, it was just the anxiety she felt whenever she crossed that threshold. But however awkward their couplings might have been, at least they had given her two wonderful children.

As if drawn by Jacob’s presence, she walked over to Laurence’s dressing table and spied a miniature of their son. It had been painted just before he’d gone off to fight Napoleon. She picked up the portrait with numb fingers. “My baby boy.” Her chest still ached with the sight of his precious face. It hurt her to know that she couldn’t share any news with him, like Marigold’s pregnancy. She knew he would have been a spectacular uncle, for he’d always had a boyish charm that endeared everyone to him.

Mena recalled that devastating moment, when Marigold had still lived at home, and they had received the message telling her that Jacob had been struck through the chest with a French bayonet. He’d died with honor on the battlefield, but Mena hadn’t cared about any of that at the time. She’d been struck with the grief that her child was dead. It had taken months for her to think of Jacob without bursting into tears.

A single tear splashed the frame of the portrait, and Mena set the picture back down and wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. Then again, there were times she still had difficulty facing the truth. He was gone.

She squared her shoulders. And so was Laurence.

It was time to put the past to rest and move on. That was a chapter of her life that was over. Thus, she made a mental note of what she wanted changed in the master’s chamber before she closed the door on all that pain. While it would never subside completely, Mena vowed to focus on the positive things in her life from now on. She would look to the future.

She was about to become a grandmother, after all.

The next afternoon, Mena’s good friend Phoebe Grant, Viscountess of Snowden, paid her call. They greeted each other with a warm embrace. She had been one of the first people who befriended Mena when she’d moved to London after her marriage. Two years older than Mena, Phoebe had also lost a son at Waterloo. Their loss had carried them through the early months when their grief had been acute. It had also brought them even closer together. There weren’t any confidences they hadn’t shared since then.

Until now, Mena amended silently.

After they were left alone with the teacart and a few treats, Phoebe wasted no time in clapping her hands together. “It’s so good to see you, Mena. You’re looking as well as ever. I swear you haven’t aged a bit in the intervening months Abraham and I have been abroad!”

Mena smiled. Phoebe had always been one to embellish the truth a bit, and she was a fantastic gossip. But her friendship had always been genuine, for nothing Mena told her had ever ended up in the scandal rags London was infamous for. And with her winning smile, bouncy auburn curls, and twinkling blue eyes, it really was hard not to like her on sight. “You’re the true miracle of youth. Where did you hide that fountain?”

Phoebe laughed. “If only I knew you could rest assured it would be transported to Abraham’s estate.”

Mena grinned as she took a sip of her tea.

“I can’t put my finger on it yet.” Phoebe waved her finger in front of her as if she meant to do so literally. “But there is something quite different about you. I daresay the only time I have that glow is when Abraham and I…” She stopped and her mouth fell open. “You’ve met someone!”

Mena slowly lowered her cup. This was the inquisition she had been dreading. “It’s complicated…”

Phoebe went on as if she hadn’t even spoken. “I can’t believe it! I’ve been here for nearly a quarter of an hour and I had to guess for myself! Why didn’t you tell me? Or more importantly…” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Who is he?”

Mena debated on how much to tell Phoebe, but in the end, she decided that if she was looking for advice, the viscountess would be the best person to offer it, for she certainly didn’t wish to speak of Julian with Marigold. At least, not yet. “His name is Julian Solomon. I met him years ago, before I married Laurence.”

Phoebe nearly clapped with glee. “Ooh. A secret romance. I love it. Keep going.”

“Well, not precisely,” Mena corrected. “We were only friends.” She paused. This is where it was going to get tricky. “He recently returned to London about a week ago. I happened to stumble onto him one day while I was out shopping.” Quite literally, she thought, but did not add that bit.

Phoebe huffed. “I doubt it was as innocent a reunion as you choose to believe.”

Mena frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Men are treacherous creatures,” Phoebe said pragmatically. If it wasn’t for the fact she’d been happily married for twenty-five years, Mena might have thought she was speaking somewhat cynically. “They will stop at nothing to get what they want, and I have a feeling he’s returned for you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mena waved a hand and then looked down as she took another sip of her tea.

“Am I? Tell me, has anything else transpired during the time of his resurgence?”

Mena hesitated.

It was enough for her friend to pounce like a cat on a helpless mouse. “I suppose it must have something to do with this mysterious suitor.”

Mena felt her eyes widen. “How…?”

“You’ll find that nothing escapes my hearing, even in Italy,” Phoebe returned dryly. “Come, come. Tell me the rest, for you know I will learn the truth one way or another.”

Mena sighed. She was absolutely right. In a city like London, it was hard to keep such a secret. She was almost surprised that more people hadn’t come to her door wanting the full on dit. She explained about the packages, whereas Phoebe nodded now and then.

When she was finished, the viscountess said rather adamantly, “They must be from this Mr. Solomon.”