It was, Rivers decided, the best sex he’d ever had in his life.
He lay with his cheek pillowed on Lucia’s breast, which was likely the best place he’d ever laid it. In fact, everything at this moment was about the best in his entire life. He was agreeably exhausted and drowsy and supremely content, lying inside the body and in the arms of a woman he loved, beneath a cloudless summer sky. How, really, could anything be improved?
“Love you, Lucia,” he mumbled into her hair, as many words as he could muster. “Love you.”
“I love you, too,” she whispered, sweetly, as if a secret meant for his ears alone, and he smiled. How could he not love her?
With a sigh, she struggled to shift beneath him. Of course, he must be a weighty, thoughtless, male lump, crushing her as he was, and with a grunt of regret he withdrew and rolled over on his back. He pulled her with him so that she’d curl beside him, her head nestled in the crook of his arm and her warm little body against his. Fondly he kissed her forehead, and thought of how well she fit with him.
“Oh!” she said, that small, familiar sound of uncomfortable distress that women often made under these circumstances. He understood. Usually he’d offer a convenient handkerchief to swab away the sticky embarrassment of their spendings, and the distress would be resolved.
But his handkerchief was well out of reach, being elsewhere on the roof, with his coat and breeches. He considered himself to be gallant and all, but right now he felt so bonelessly relaxed that the thought of having to leave her and the bed to fumble about for a handkerchief seemed beyond his ability. Fortunately Lucia seemed to feel the same, saying nothing further. He kissed her again, and let himself drift back into that charmed, hazy state of nonthinking bliss.
But the bliss was soon to be shattered, and nonthinking with it. In fact he was going to be forced to think quite a bit, whether he wanted to or not.
“Forgive me, Rivers,” Lucia said, her voice filled with dismay. “But I fear I’ve—I’ve ruined your counterpane.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” he said, unconcerned. “I’m sure the laundress can cope with whatever we’ve left.”
“It wasn’t you, Rivers,” she said, her dismay shifting to mortification. She disentangled herself from Rivers and slipped from the bed. “It was me. On silk velvet.”
Missing her already, Rivers sighed again and reluctantly rolled on his side to survey the damage that so disturbed her.
She was standing beside the bed, her hands pressed to her mouth. As far as he was concerned, there was no reason to feel any shame, not over something as inevitable as a wet place on the bed.
Then he looked lower. Her thighs were daubed with blood, with more on the counterpane. Quickly he looked down at his shaft, and saw that he hadn’t escaped, either.
He took a deep breath, reminding himself once again that these things happened.
“It’s nothing to fuss over, Lucia,” he said. “Unfortunate, yes, to happen now, but I understand that a woman’s monthly—”
“It’s not from that.” She raised her chin, bravely striving to rise above her dismay even as she flushed. “This was my first time, Rivers, and I—”
“You were a maid?” he blurted out in disbelief. “A virgin?”
The stain to her cheeks deepened as she nodded.
“A virgin.” Abruptly he sat upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and pulled one edge of the counterpane over his cock. He wasn’t ordinarily so modest, but under the circumstances, his naked parts didn’t seem appropriate. “Damnation, Lucia, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t.” She grabbed another of the coverlets from the end of the bed and wrapped it around herself. “Would you have believed me if I had?”
He took another deep breath, fighting the uncomfortable realization that she was right. Most likely he wouldn’t have believed her. She was a Di Rossi, and Di Rossis weren’t virgins, at least not at her age. He’d known that she wasn’t promiscuous, that she didn’t have any protectors or admirers, but he’d assumed that somewhere, at some time, she’d had at least one lover.
“You still should have told me,” he insisted, not answering her question, to avoid wounding her further. “Had I known, I would have, ah, done things differently.”
Disappointment flickered across her eyes.
“And that is why I didn’t tell you, my lord,” she said, biting out each word with bitterness. “Because I have no regrets at all, and I would not have changed a single thing. Not one.”
“Lucia, please,” he began, hating how she’d begun using his title again. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, and yet it seemed with every word he was doing exactly that.
“No,” she said firmly, in the same tone that she used when Spot misbehaved: a single word that was as sharp and definitive as a slammed door. “If you are done with me, my lord, I will return to my room.”
“Don’t leave,” he said quickly, before she could do exactly that. “Please. Damnation, Lucia, that’s not what either of us wants.”
To his relief she didn’t go, but her expression—wounded and guarded and trying to be neither—didn’t change as she waited for him to say more. He’d no idea exactly what that should be, what to say to put things back to rights between them. Still, he had to say something, and so he said what came first to his head.
“I don’t want you to go,” he said. “Not at all. Instead I want you to stay here with me all the night through, and I want to watch the sun rise, there to the east, with you in my arms.”
“Why?” she asked, the most direct and disarming question she could have asked.
“Because I love you,” he said, the simplest answer, and the truest as well. “I love you, Lucia, and I want you to stay so I can tell you again and again until you listen and believe me.”
Still her expression didn’t change. She touched the cameo around her neck, rubbing it lightly between her thumb and forefinger, and then sighed. “I must wash.”
“Behind that screen is a washstand,” he said quickly, pointing across the roof to the other side of one of the chimneys. “There’s water and soap and a chamber pot. Everything you could need.”
At once she turned and headed to where he’d pointed, her long hair wafting behind her. He had wanted this night to be special, not the disaster it had turned into, and he’d only have a few minutes before she rejoined him to try to redeem it.
As soon as she’d gone behind the screen, he jumped from the bed. He wiped himself as clean as he could with the counterpane, then wadded it up and shoved it from sight beneath the bed, where she wouldn’t be reminded of it, and neither would he. He retrieved his breeches and pulled them on, hopping across the floor in his haste, and threw his shirt on over his head. He turned again to the bed and smoothed the sheets as best he could, plumping the pillows and generally trying to make it look inviting and not like the scene of a ravishment.
A virgin. He’d no experience with virgins and maidenheads. None. What he’d interpreted to be a charming boldness on her part had really been innocent ignorance, and he cursed himself for not realizing it. That was what he’d meant about doing things differently. He still wouldn’t have been able to resist taking her to his bed. But if he’d known it was her first time, he would have been much more gentle, more careful, instead of roaring ahead like the village bull in rut.
At least he knew he’d given her pleasure. There’d been no mistaking that. But he hoped she’d give him the chance to show her how he could make things even better for them both, and to really, truly make love to her.
He did love her. He’d meant it when he’d said it, and love wasn’t something he took lightly. He wasn’t one of those gentlemen who professed heartfelt love to every pretty face that crossed his path.
In fact he couldn’t recall ever feeling as much in love with a woman as he was with Lucia, nor could he think of another woman whose company he enjoyed more. She made him laugh and she made him think, and she kept him guessing because he never quite knew what she’d say or do next. He liked her intelligence and her wit and her breasts, though the order of those likes could change depending on what she was wearing.
But most of all, she made him happy, which was why he’d already been trying to think of a way to continue seeing her once this time at the Lodge was done and they were back in London. He wasn’t ready to give her up, especially after tonight.
If only her father had been an earl instead of some drunken Neapolitan dancer…
Would he find her as fascinating if she’d been born a lady? Would he still find her as beautiful, as seductive, as endlessly intriguing? What if she were that earl’s daughter, the kind of suitable young woman who would earn his father’s approval as a future wife?
But she wasn’t, he argued firmly, turning back those questions with logic. Logic and reason said that the lessons in etiquette and speech could transform her into an actress, not a lady. Logic said that they were the gloss of appearances, not reality. Because if she truly were a lady and he’d just taken her maidenhead and ruined her, there’d be no question of what came next. He’d marry her, as soon as could be decently arranged.
Logic said—loudly—that a young woman from the theatrical world like Lucia wouldn’t be considered ruined, and no one would be demanding a wedding. Instead he should offer to put her into keeping, with a small house, a servant or two, and an allowance. Even that would be considered generous of him.
That was the logical, intellectual argument, with the full force of reason to support it.
But when had logic anything to do with Lucia? He looked up at the stars, heartily wishing the evening were back at the beginning again.
“Rivers?”
Startled, he turned around quickly. He hadn’t heard her come up behind him, her stockinged feet quiet on the carpet. She had replaced the coverlet with the silk dressing gown that he’d hung from a hook on the screen. The dressing gown was cut from an extravagant striped yellow silk and sized for him, and she’d tied it close to her body with the sash wrapped tight, twice around her narrow waist. Although the sleeves were still too long and the hem trailed behind her like a train, it was surprisingly becoming with her long, dark hair, and as sensuous as hell.
“Are you better now?” he asked, and immediately could have kicked himself for asking such an inane question. “That is, I trust you are, ah, recovering.”
“Recovered, and restored.” She smiled shyly, smoothing her hair behind her ears, and instantly the world seemed more back to rights. “ ‘The chariest maid is prodigal enough, / If she unmask her beauty to the moon.’ ”
He frowned, not expecting her to quote the play now. “That’s Ophelia, not you,” he said. “I should hardly call you prodigal and extravagant, Lucia, even if you are beautiful by moonlight.”
She gave a little shrug, unconsciously making the silk dressing gown slide farther from one shoulder. “Very well, then,” she said. “I was unsettled.”
“Entirely understandable, given the, ah, circumstances,” he said, restlessly tapping his hand against one of the canopy posts. The oversized dressing gown kept gliding open at the neck, giving him a distracting glimpse of her naked body beneath it. Even after her sobering revelation, he still wanted her again, wanted her now.
“But the circumstances could not have been more splendid,” she said wistfully. She looked around at the elegantly set but neglected table, where candles in two of the lanterns had already guttered out. “You went to such trouble for me.”
“I could have gone to a great deal more,” he said, his regret tinged with guilt. “Lucia, when I said I wished I’d known of your innocence so that I could have done things differently, I meant that, had I known, I could have shown more kindness toward you. I would have been more gentle, more—”
“You were exactly as I wanted you to be,” she said, coming to stand in front of him. “I wanted to be as much a part of you as I could, Rivers, to join with you not just with our hearts, but in every way, and so I trusted you, and it was…it was magic. Oh, I know you must think that a foolish way to describe it, but that’s how it was to me. Magic.”
“I don’t think you’re a fool,” he said. “I think you’re entirely right. It was magic, the purest, most passionate magic of all.”
“Most passionate magic,” she repeated, clearly delighting in the phrase. “I didn’t understand at first, but later, after you told me you wished to watch the sun rise with me, I did. I knew you wouldn’t wish to undo what we’d done, not after you said that.”
“Of course I wouldn’t,” he said. “Why should I wish to undo something I’ll never forget?”
“Oh, Rivers,” she said, dipping her chin and smiling with pleasure in a thoroughly disarming way. “But you see, that’s why I didn’t tell you I was still a maid, or even that you are the only man I’ve ever kissed.”
“Ever?” he repeated, stunned, and aroused as well by the thought that he was the first man in her life.
“Ever,” she said with unimpeachable finality. “But you are so noble and gentlemanly that I didn’t want to risk having you refuse me if you knew.”
He smiled ruefully. “I do not believe I’m half as noble as that, Lucia. Not with you.”
“But you are,” she insisted. She reached up to cradle his jaw against her palm, and he could have sworn there were tears in her eyes. “Il mio caro, dolce, leone d’oro! You have given me so much already, and yet I wanted this, too. For this night, I wanted to be yours.”
Gently he took her hand and turned it toward his lips so he could kiss her palm, then ran his lips down to the inside of her wrist, to where he felt her pulse quicken beneath his kiss.
“For this evening, and many more besides,” he murmured. “Do you believe I’d be content with only tonight?”
Swiftly she turned her hand and covered his mouth.
“Don’t say that,” she said. “You mustn’t. We cannot count on anything beyond this, here. Minute by minute, day by day. That is what we have together.”
“And whatever fate and the stars decree,” he said, repeating what she’d told him in the garden. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“Then you understand,” she said, her voice husky yet achingly bittersweet with unshed tears. “Oh, Rivers, I did not intend to be so weak and weepy!”
“You’re hardly that,” he said. “You are so many things to me, but weak and weepy are not among them.”
She shook her head and turned away from him, looking up at the sky, fighting both her emotions and the tears. He slipped his arm around her waist and drew her close, her back to his chest. It was warm and familiar, holding her like this, and with a sigh she leaned against him, resting her head against his shoulder.
“Would you like me to send for our supper?” he asked, hoping such a bland subject would help her to collect herself. “That is, if Mrs. Barber hasn’t given us up completely by now.”
“Hah, one more reason for her to fault me,” Lucia said with a sigh. “But I find I’m not hungry just yet. Later, perhaps.”
“Then what is your wish?” he said. “For this minute.”
“This minute.” She twisted, her face turned toward his. She circled her arms around his waist and teasingly slipped her hands up inside his shirt to find the bare skin of his back. “I want to love you, Rivers, lie beside you and gaze up at the stars, and I want you to show me every one, and then the sunrise besides.”
“Then you shall have it,” he said, unwrapping the sash on the dressing gown as if he were unwrapping a gift. “All the stars, and Venus and Jupiter besides.”
Ever since she’d been a child, Lucia had believed in magic. It wasn’t the kind of petty magic that conjurers performed in the park, making coins appear from behind their ears. Instead it was a private, personal, and hazy definition of the word, an indefinable force that would come and somehow transform her life for the better. Through all the bad times and unhappy days—and she suffered through many of both—she had steadfastly clung to this notion of magic, certain that it would come.
And in this balmy month of June, the magic had indeed come: first in the form of Rivers himself, whisking her away to the country, and then in the opportunity he’d offered her to become an actress, and finally, now, the love that they’d found together, a love that blazed hot and bright with the desire they’d discovered there on the roof of Breconridge Lodge.
Under the stars, the magic was everywhere.
They had spent the entire first night beneath the crescent moon, exactly as he’d promised, and they’d exhausted themselves making glorious, shameless love. Lying together with their arms and legs intimately tangled, they had watched the night sky fade beneath the morning star and the dawn turn the east a golden rose with the new day.
They had spent the next two days in each other’s company, eating in the garden, walking in the woods and beside the lake, and in his bed and hers and always ending up in the one they shared on the roof. Not once did he fault her accent, nor did she accuse him of living too much in his books, and the only time that Hamlet was ever mentioned was in inappropriate passages quoted and chosen to make the other laugh.
That is, until the morning of the third day, when Rivers told her that they were expecting a visitor later that morning.
“A visitor,” she repeated. They had awakened to a sky that was a dull pewter gray this morning, the air heavy and chill with a coming storm that would surely mark the end of their sunny June days. Sudden gusts of wind ruffled the tops of the trees and made the canopy overhead puff and blow like the sails of a ship. Yet still they lingered in their rooftop bed, snug beneath a pile of striped coverlets and unwilling to be driven into the house just yet. Lucia was lying lazily half-across Rivers, her breasts crushed against his chest and her chin resting on her folded hands, while he kept one arm possessively flung over her hips.
“A pox on your visitor, Rivers,” she said. “Who would come to call upon you here?”
“He’s not calling to see me, Lucia,” he said, shoving a pillow behind his head so he could better see her. “He’s coming to call upon you.”
“Oh, no, he’s not,” she scoffed. “In all my days, not one person has called anywhere to see me.”
“Then today’s visitor shall be the first,” he said, and yawned extravagantly—and, suspected Lucia, purposefully as well. “I hope you’ll manage to be civil to the poor fellow, considering he will have come all this way from London for the express purpose of calling upon you.”
Swiftly she ran through any possible men who might make the long ride from London for her sake. Among her acquaintance, only Uncle Lorenzo possessed the wherewithal to make such a journey, but she doubted very much he would so much as cross the lane to see her, especially given their last conversation.
No, she was certain that Rivers was teasing her about having a caller, and she glowered at him.
“You are filled with rubbish, Rivers,” she said, thumping his chest to make her point. “I don’t know anyone who would come here for me. You have invented this phantom caller entirely to plague me.”
He yowled dramatically and clutched at his chest before shoving her aside.
“Very well, then, madam,” he said, pretending to be wounded. “You may believe what you choose. I shall simply have Mr. McGraw turned away when he arrives, and told that you are not at home.”
“McGraw?” she exclaimed, sitting upright. In the world of London playhouses, there was only one Mr. McGraw, but she couldn’t dare hope that this was the one that Rivers meant. “Which McGraw?”
Rivers screwed up his face as if to think deeply. “I believe he is the Mr. McGraw, the manager of the Russell Street Theatre. But since you have no knowledge of any such—”
“What have you done, Rivers?” she demanded, her heart racing with anticipation, and a bit of dread as well. “When last we spoke of it, I was to perform in a public room for an invited audience. You have never said a word to me of Mr. McGraw!”
Smiling serenely, Rivers sat up against the pillows and linked his hands behind his head.
“Then I shall say them now,” he said. “When first we made our agreement, I believed that a performance in a public room would suffice to silence Everett and secure the wager, and also display your accomplishments to a select audience.”
“Yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “That is what we agreed, without any mention of Mr. McGraw. You must tell me, Rivers. What have you done?”
“What I have done, Lucia, is to reward your talent and hard work.” His expression lost its teasing edge, and his smile faded. “I realized that you deserved a far better audience than the circle of my friends. Therefore I wrote to Mr. McGraw, and invited him here for a private audition with my dear friend Mrs. Willow. If he is suitably impressed—which I do not doubt he will be—then he will consider staging a single-night benefit performance of Hamlet featuring the actors of his company, and you as Ophelia.”
She gasped, and pressed her hands over her mouth. It was more than she’d dreamed, and far more than she’d expected. She knew from her family’s company that most theatrical benefits lasted only a single night, but if the performance was well received, then the house’s manager could extend it into a regular run of a week, a month, or even longer, if the play became a sensation—and the actors and actresses with it.
“Richard McGraw is coming all this way to audition me?” she asked, wanting to make absolutely certain she hadn’t misheard. “Me, here?”
Rivers laughed, and nodded. “Your reputation precedes you, sweetheart.”
“Only because you told him,” she said, letting the wonder of what he’d said sink in. An audition for Russell Street! There would be no better way to become a celebrated actress, and to have the career she’d always wanted. She knew she could win audiences. She knew it. The chance was waiting for her. All she’d need do would be to seize it, and impress Mr. McGraw the way she knew she could.
“I’ve so much to do if he’s arriving this morning,” she said, her mind racing ahead. “How shall I prepare for him? How can I know which scene he’ll wish to hear?”
“You are prepared,” Rivers said. “He can ask you to speak any scene, and you’ll know it.”
“But managers try to trick actors during auditions,” she said. Too excited to remain still, she slipped from the bed and reached for the striped silk dressing gown that had become hers. “I saw it at King’s. Mr. Lane is the manager there, and he’d interrupt actors during their auditions and toss out lines from other plays, just to fuddle them.”
“That doesn’t mean McGraw will do the same,” Rivers said, watching her pull the sash snug around her waist. “Russell Street is a few rungs above King’s.”
“Which only means Mr. McGraw will have more cunning ways to try to confuse me,” she said, her agitation growing as she began to pace alongside the bed. “What shall I wear? Should I try to contrive a costume fit for Ophelia?”
“He’ll be expecting Mrs. Willow, not Ophelia,” Rivers said. “Any one of your new gowns will do.”
Lucia shook her head, not really listening. “I must review my lines again, so they’ll be perfect. We haven’t done anything these last two days.”
“I would hardly say we’ve done nothing, sweetheart,” Rivers said drily. “Besides, you already know your lines perfectly.”
“But this is my one chance,” she said, more to her pacing feet than to him. “What if I forget the words, what if I—”
“Lucia, please.” Rivers caught her by the arm to stop her pacing, and pulled her onto his lap. “You will not forget your lines. You will choose the perfect gown. You will stun McGraw with your brilliance, and he will fall at your feet in amazement at your talent.”
She pursed her mouth, unconvinced. “I wish I were as certain as you.”
He kissed her lightly, a kiss of reassurance rather than passion.
“You should be certain,” he said. “I would not have asked the man to come here to the Lodge if I didn’t believe you were ready.”
An unsettling doubt, perilously close to suspicion suddenly clouded her thoughts. “When did you invite him?”
Rivers shrugged, tracing his fingers along her collarbone as he eased the dressing gown aside. “I do not recall the exact day that I wrote to him. Sometime last week. Why does it matter?”
She pulled the gown back into place. “When did you receive a letter in reply from him?”
He frowned at her once-again covered chest. “His letter was delivered to me before we left for Newbury. A sorry, scribbled thing it was, too, for all that it contained such excellent news.”
She would not be distracted by McGraw’s penmanship, and she twisted around on Rivers’s lap so she was facing him directly.
“So you knew of this when we drove to Newbury,” she said softly, “and in Mrs. Currie’s shop, and on the ride back to the Lodge, and then when we came here to the roof?”
His expression didn’t change. He was the same irresistibly handsome Rivers that she loved, tousled and with a night’s worth of beard glistening on his jaw. Yet she couldn’t help but sense that he was holding something back from her, and that there was an unfamiliar air of distance in those blue eyes.
“I did,” he said simply. “I did.”
“And all through these last two days?” she asked, incredulous. “You knew, yet you did not choose to tell me until this morning? Until now?”
He sighed, and leaned back against the pillows and away from her. “I judged it best for you, Lucia. I didn’t want you fussing and worrying for the two days before McGraw’s arrival. By the way you’re behaving now, I was right to do so, too.”
“Perhaps you were, and perhaps you weren’t.” She scrambled from his lap and stood looking down at him, her arms folded across her chest. She couldn’t believe that he’d kept something this important from her. It stung that he’d been so high-handed in his decision, too, as if she were an overeager child unable to withstand the excitement of anticipation.
“I appreciate that you wrote to Mr. McGraw, Rivers, but I would have liked to have known about it before this,” she said, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice.
He lowered his chin defensively, a bad sign for a reasonable conversation. “Why? What difference could those two days possibly have made?”
“Because this audition could change the rest of my life,” she said. “Because having you write to Mr. McGraw without telling me makes me feel as if I am simply another of your possessions, to be ordered about however you please.”
“That’s not true,” he said irritably. “I’d never think that of you.”
“But Mr. McGraw will,” she said, unable to keep the unhappiness from her voice. “I’m sure he already does. As soon as he read your letter, I’m sure he decided that I must be your mistress, for you to take such a proprietary interest in me.”
He held his hands out, indicating the rumpled sheets of the bed. “It’s a bit late to consider that, isn’t it?”
She flushed. She wouldn’t deny that she’d willingly shared this bed with him, but in her mind she’d been his lover, not his mistress. Apparently he thought otherwise.
She’d known it would be like this. Because of the distance between their ranks, he would always think of himself as better, higher, than she. He might love her, but he’d never think of her as his equal. He couldn’t help it. It had been that way for him since the day he’d been born. He’d always be the one who would unconsciously make decisions like this one. She’d known from the moment she’d agreed to the wager, but she’d let her heart overrule her common sense, and now it had come to this, and she was no better than Magdalena.
“It wasn’t too late when you first wrote to Mr. McGraw last week,” she insisted. “You made the decision for me when all that was between us was the wager. I would like to have been the one to decide if I was ready for an audition or not.”
“But you are,” he said with his own maddening logic. “I’ve no doubt of it. Have you forgotten that you promised to trust me in all things, Lucia? Don’t you recall that was part of our initial agreement?”
She looked down, away from him. There was nothing to be gained from this conversation. She had agreed then, but many things had changed between them since that agreement—some that she hadn’t even realized.
“The question is not whether I trust you, Rivers,” she said quietly. “Rather it seems that it’s you who doesn’t trust me.”
She turned away quickly, not giving him time to answer, and headed for the door to the stairs.
“Lucia.”
She stopped, and took a deep breath. Would he explain? Would he apologize?
She looked back over her shoulder. He’d left the bed, and was pulling on his breeches, the sight of his taut, ridged abdomen and well-muscled thighs enough to make her pause.
Ahh, her grande leone d’oro, her own great golden lion!
“I’ll come with you,” he said. “We can review your lines if you’d like.”
That wasn’t either an explanation or an apology, and her heart sank a fraction.
She shook her head. “You told me that wasn’t necessary. You just said I was ready for an audition.”
“I did,” he said, buttoning the fall on his breeches. “But if it will give you more confidence, then I am willing.”
“No,” she said. “Thank you, no. I’m going to dress.”
“Ahh,” he said with an awkward shrug. “If that is what you wish. I expect McGraw later this morning, before dinner. I will receive him first, and then send for you to join us, if that is agreeable to you.”
“Very well,” she said. “I shall be ready, and waiting in my room for you to send for me.”
And then she turned away and left him, her bare feet making little sound on the stone steps. He did not follow, and she was so unhappy that she didn’t know if she wished he had.
For a long while afterward, she stood at the window of her room, and watched the first raindrops blow and splatter against the diamond-shaped panes. It was the first time she had been alone, without Rivers, for nearly three days, and she missed him. No matter how infuriating he was, that wouldn’t change.
She missed him.
Finally, with a deep sigh, she called for Sally to help her dress. Before long Mr. McGraw would arrive, and if she did her best, then her future would begin as well—either with Rivers in it, or not.