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  He put his hands in his pockets and stared off at the delicate cloud-to-cloud lightning, too far away to be heard.

  “The way Donne explores the contradictions in life makes reading his poetry similar to . . . I don’t know.” Mr. Lowe broke off from his hesitant speech and stood silent for a moment. “It’s like the feeling you get when you find something in a Bible passage that gives you insight into yourself or the world. A gem worthy of meditating on, savoring . . .” He reached up to play with his collar. “I’m sorry. That probably made little sense.”

  Lydia barely kept herself from clapping. He actually read, really read! Surely he’d listen to her requests with a more sympathetic ear if he discovered she had the same interests. “Do you have a favorite poet?”

  “Byron, Coleridge, Poe . . .” He broke off with a huffed chuckle. “The dark ones apparently.”

  “I love Byron. Which is your favorite piece?”

  “‘When We Two Parted,’ perhaps.”

  “I don’t remember that one.” She frowned. Hopefully she could find something they’d both read before he dismissed her.

  “I’ll lend you my Byron, if you wish.” He resumed walking and took the massive porch stairs two at a time.

  She raced eagerly after him despite her tight lungs. If only he weren’t half a foot taller than her, her legs might not have been burning to keep up.

  He spun in front of his towering double doors and held out his hand. “But, ah . . . remain here if you would.”

  The heavily stained door slammed, leaving her alone in the moist cold. She stopped short of kicking his door in frustration. He could have at least let her into his entry hall. But he was a thoughtless man, so she shouldn’t be surprised.

  But did thoughtless men read Augustine and Donne?

  The house was gargantuan, so his library had to be of remarkable size. She’d already borrowed all the books her old high school teacher, Charlie’s husband, owned thrice over, and she hadn’t enough money to buy more than one a month—if that.

  She eased toward the door’s glass but stopped shy of hooding her eyes against the glare. Female voices sounded inside, and Mr. Lowe’s quick baritone barked a one-word reply. She scurried back from the door.

  Instead of Mr. Lowe, a woman with soft dark curls framing sharp, serious eyes opened the door. She was likely in her early thirties, like Mr. Lowe, but her black dress and dirty white apron bespoke her position as a servant. The woman stepped onto the porch and held out two books.

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Lowe had a pressing matter arise. He said to give you these and bid you good day.”

  Lydia blinked hard. Maybe she shouldn’t take the books. If he wasn’t willing to help poor people with blankets, should she take his books for her own entertainment? Yet her feet moved toward them as if they had free will. The temptation to borrow something she hadn’t read a dozen times over was too much. She took the stack: a small leather-bound volume of Byron sat atop Mark Twain’s Roughing It.

  She forced her eyes off the beautiful poetry cover. “I hope the matter detaining him isn’t serious.”

  “He’s always serious.” The woman took a step back, a grim set to her mouth.

  “I see.” But she didn’t, not really.

  The servant ducked her head dismissively. “Good day, miss.”

  And the door shut with a resounding thud.

  4

  Nicholas stood far enough behind his mansion’s Tiffany glass front door that if Miss King turned, she’d not see his silhouette. She was already at the bottom of his driveway, the books he’d lent her hugged to her chest.

  His housekeeper, Caroline O’Conner, returned from a quick trip to the basement. “You could’ve seen her off personally.”

  “I was talking too much.”

  “Oh?” Caroline moved to the window. “She had the most arresting eyes. So light blue they were almost colorless. Quite the contrast with all that dark hair.”

  Yes. Though her excessive eyelash batting had made it difficult to take her seriously, the constant movement had pulled his gaze back to those navy-rimmed, pale blue irises countless times.

  “I couldn’t give her what she wanted. If I give to one beggar, I’ll have a line of them at my door.”

  “She doesn’t look the beggarly type.”

  No. Even worse. Her expressions—shifting from self-abasement to entreaty and back—had been hard enough to resist, but when they’d discussed literature, her eyes downright sparkled. He’d almost given in to her inane charity request just to see what she’d do when truly excited.

  But it was the principle of the thing.

  He wouldn’t compromise his integrity to see a pretty woman give him a real smile. He sighed and shrugged out of his frock coat. Miss King must think him the most ill-mannered man in Kansas. Not that he’d argue that. Hopefully this was the last time he’d see her near his offices. None of the other ladies from that moral-society group had pestered him more than once. A quick and rude refusal kept people from hoping for things they’d never get—usually. And yet Miss King stuck around, even after he’d shut the door in her face.

  “I should have invited her in and forced you to be sociable.” Caroline’s face looked amused.

  “She can’t come in.” He lowered his voice. “Not with the maids here.”

  Caroline glanced through the archway into the music room, where Effie and Violet waxed the hardwood floor. “You know as well as I do the chance of her recognizing them is minimal.”

  “We can’t take that chance. When I entertain guests, the maids best stay in the kitchen or the basement.”

  “And when do you plan on entertaining?”

  “Never. For how am I supposed to entertain without servants serving?” People complicated things. Complicated everything. And that woman . . . He peeked out the window again, but she’d already disappeared.

  Caroline crossed her arms and winked. “She’s quite pretty. I can’t think of any reason why she wouldn’t take a shine to you. Invite her family over, and I’ll make sure the maids are busy elsewhere.”

  No, he couldn’t. Not even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t. Attractive features suckered men into things they didn’t think through. He knew that firsthand. “Don’t get your matchmaking hopes up. Rumor has it she’s about to be engaged to the mayor’s son.”

  “Oh.” Her face wrinkled like a scolded puppy. “Pity.”

  Yes, it was. If Miss King was involved with Sebastian Little, she was likely untrustworthy or naïve. A minx might lay in wait behind those beguiling eyes.

  “If you aren’t setting your cap for her, then there’s no reason to keep looking out the window.” Caroline raised her eyebrows. “Or is there?”

  He tried to make a menacing face, but the woman only smiled. He walked over to his ivory-topped table and snatched cards and letters off the silver tray. On top was a fine linen envelope with Mr. Tiffany’s business address in the upper left corner. “Ah, finally.”

  He opened the missive and scanned its contents before handing it to Caroline. “Mr. Tiffany will arrive in five weeks to personally install the gasolier in the dining room. Make sure the dining set is covered.”

  This last fixture would complete construction. But living in a three-story mansion as a bachelor was absurd. And yet, he’d built it anyway. How else could he assuage the guilt over his late wife’s death? Not that anything he’d done so far had made him feel better.

  Maybe his cousin Roxie could help him figure out what to do with the house. “Tell Roxie I need to talk with her.” He shuffled through the other envelopes—bills and more bills and a letter from Henri Beauchamp. He turned it over and ripped off the flap.

  Caroline cleared her throat and wrung her hands.

  “Yes?” He discarded the envelope.

  “I’m afraid she’s leaving.” His housekeeper wouldn’t meet his eyes, her voice barely a whisper.

  His heart jumped hard against his chest. Each and every woman who’d come to work
for him in an attempt to leave her past behind had left within months, but his cousin had been with him for more than two years. She wouldn’t leave him. Surely Caroline meant someone else.

  Anyone but Roxie, Lord.

  “Why didn’t you inform me the moment I walked in?” His hands fisted involuntarily, crumpling Henri’s letter.

  Caroline shook her head. “She intends to leave at the end of the week, sir.”

  He let out a rickety breath, and his heartbeat slowed. Every girl who’d left had slipped away in the middle of the night, but Roxie was family.

  At least he had time to talk sense into her, or at minimum, persuade her to leave her son behind. “Where is she?”

  Caroline shrugged. “She’s playing with Francis right now, but she asked me to watch him after supper so you two could talk.”

  He gave a sharp nod. He’d wait instead of upsetting his cousin and her son by interrupting their game. “Good. I’ll convince her to stay then.”

  “I hope you will.”

  “I’ll let you return to your work.”

  Just when he thought things couldn’t get worse. . . . He shuffled into the dining room though he had an hour to wait until supper. Slumping in his chair at the head of the table, he stared at the hole in the ceiling that had been prepared for his custom-made Tiffany lamp, the final touch for his empty, showy house—the kind of house he never wanted.

  By summer, his six years of bartering, diverting business funds, and doing some construction himself would be over. One hundred twenty-five thousand dollars sitting on top of a hill. A steal of a deal completed.

  And Roxie was leaving, throwing away everything he’d given her.

  He slammed his fist on the table.

  He should just burn the whole thing to the ground.

  5

  Lydia cut her ham gently so as not to clink her silverware against Mrs. Little’s fine china. The older woman was glowering at her enough as it was. She didn’t want to give her any more reason to frost her with those ice-cold eyes.

  Sebastian’s father, Teaville’s newly appointed mayor, speared a baby potato with his fork and pointed the utensil at his wife. “You need to stop visiting Mrs. Johansen.” The mayor was the mirror image of his son, though the elder was thicker in stature and had a ruddier face and gray streaks at his temples. “Vargis and Athenasmear don’t like her husband, so the sooner we cut ties with them the better.”

  Mrs. Little lifted her hand as if she were about to cut him off.

  “You will not risk it.” Mayor Little smacked the table.

  “She doesn’t matter anyway.” Mrs. Little lifted her palm in surrender, but the gleam in her eye didn’t look submissive. “And if we aren’t going to risk anything, then you’ll have to give James Furp the boot.”

  Mayor Little ground his teeth, glaring at his wife.

  Every scrape of Lydia’s fork seemed ten times louder in the awkward silence. Polite people would engage their guest in conversation, not bicker as if she weren’t there.

  What was wrong with them? At the fall festival last week, they’d acted like a pair of lovebirds. Tonight, they seemed ready to peck each other’s eyes out.

  Sebastian leaned back in the seat across from her; his tall, lanky frame made the chair look child-sized. “That was excellent fare, Mother.”

  Lydia eyed his clean plate. No doubt he’d perfected the art of shoveling food to stay out of his parents’ dinner conversations.

  Mrs. Little flicked her eyes to Sebastian and shrugged. “That’s the only reason I keep the cook. She’s so slovenly. All that flour behind the stove and in the corners . . .”

  Lydia accidently swallowed a chunk of meat whole. Her eyes watered, and she took a sip of tea, hoping it would clear the obstruction. She raised her napkin to her mouth and coughed a little, desperate to keep her composure. If a little flour in the kitchen was too messy for Mrs. Little, how would she react to her guest choking at the table with tea spurting from her nose?

  She’d rather die of asphyxiation than disgrace herself in such a manner.

  “Are you all right, Miss King?” Mayor Little’s question forced her to focus through tear-glazed eyes.

  She tried a quick inhale, glad to discover she could breathe. “Yes, sir.” A cough escaped, and she fought the urge to give in to more. At least her distress had distracted the mayor from his wife for the moment.

  “This port is exceedingly fine.” Sebastian swirled his glass of wine. He slanted his eyes at her, his hair feathering out wildly at his receding hairline. “How did you like the pork loin?”

  “It was delicious.” Even if she had choked on it.

  “Did you taste a hint of cinnamon? I detected something unusual.”

  “I’m not sure.” And this was exactly why one should read books. To avoid having to talk about the weather, the food, and the neighbor’s curtains. If she were in love she probably wouldn’t care, but she wasn’t, and his conversation topics grew more tedious with each dinner date.

  She needed to distract him from telling her how crisp the potatoes had been and keep his parents from restarting their feud. “Have any of you read a good book lately?”

  Mrs. Little cocked a brow.

  Silence.

  “Well, I’ve been reading Twain—”

  “Did the high school assign Twain?” Mayor Little hung an arm over the back of his chair.

  “Well, no. There I read Cicero, Virgil—”

  “I still have no idea why parents allow their girls to take the collegiate course.” The mayor held out his hand as if he were addressing a crowd. “What good is a woman who can quote Cicero?” The mayor’s hot glare settled on his son as if Sebastian needed to answer for her choice of classes. “All a woman needs is a pretty smile.”

  She forced herself to loosen her grip before she cracked her goblet’s stem. “No learning is wasted, Mayor Little, even on a woman. It sharpens the mind. And since I understand rhetoric, I’ll be better able to help Sebastian than if I only knew how to sing arias and coordinate dinner linens.” Lydia kept her gaze off Mrs. Little, afraid the woman would take what she said as an insult.

  “Darling, he only meant you’d be pleasing to look at on the campaign trail.” Sebastian looked at her as if she were standing on her head. “And there’s something to be said for a woman whose speech isn’t . . . so combative.” His sentence hung in the air.

  Did he direct that comment just to her or to his mother as well? She wasn’t the only one at this table needing lessons on social niceties.

  Mrs. Little harrumphed.

  Lydia averted her gaze, sure her unchristian thoughts could be seen in her eyes.

  “Perhaps some of your learning might prove helpful, but I still worry about your father.” Mayor Little swiveled toward his son again. “He’s a liability.”

  Lydia’s shoulders fell. If only she could slide down in a puddle of pleats under the dining room table. Would her father’s choices haunt the rest of her life? And why hadn’t the mayor waited to grill his son on his choice of a wife in private?

  “I don’t intend to give him money, Father.” Sebastian glanced at her, and she gave him a conceding look. Since she went to great lengths to hide her nickels from the man, she could hardly fault Sebastian for the same.

  Sebastian turned to her. “How’s your mother doing?”

  His look of concern made her relax. “Poorly, I’m afraid.”

  “Perhaps I ought to take her soup.” Mrs. Little signaled for her dishes to be cleared. “I’m sure her care consumes your time.” She narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. “Will it keep you from petitioning Mr. Lowe again anytime soon?”

  Why was Mrs. Little fixated on her squeezing money out of the man? “I intend to try again as soon as I can.” But she’d have to think of a new tactic.

  Mrs. Little’s mouth twitched in displeasure.

  “What is this about Lowe?” Mayor Little waved a servant over and grabbed the port from the man’s hands. He tipped himsel
f a glass and thunked the bottle on the table.

  “We’re raising funds for our quilt project, so I challenged Miss King to fish something out of Mr. Lowe’s pockets.” Mrs. Little glared at her husband. “Instead of riling her up over things she can’t change, I’m teaching her how to woo the citizenry. She needs some real skills to help Sebastian.”

  “Mother . . .” Sebastian finally set down his ever-swirling wine glass. “Don’t make her jump through ridiculous hoops.”

  Lydia focused on her lap. She should’ve stayed quiet.

  “Nonsense. I don’t sit around reading all day. I work long hours for you both. If I didn’t contribute to your political ambitions by schmoozing and prodding, you wouldn’t be where you are today.”

  “That’s enough, Rebecca.” Mayor Little’s voice boomed, and the manservant clearing his place setting jumped, dropping a sauce-laden spoon onto the pristine tablecloth. The man hung his head like an oft-beaten dog and apologized profusely as he wiped up the mess.

  Lydia pushed away from the table. Her napkin tumbled off her lap, but she didn’t rescue it. “I’m afraid I need . . . some air. Excuse me, please.”

  As she made her way to the back of the house, Mayor Little’s grouchy voice followed. “Why are you thinking of marrying her again?”

  Her hand froze on the doorknob. Should she wait to hear Sebastian’s answer? He’d never said more about his intentions than believing they could be of service to one another—he’d provide for her financially and she’d support him during campaigns. But she had a suspicion Papa had foisted her on Sebastian in an attempt to make good on a losing poker hand.

  “She’s beautiful and young.” Sebastian’s voice sounded smooth, disinterested.

  Her hand tightened on the glass knob. Was that all? The world was silent, as if the earth held its breath with her.

  “. . . and smart.”

  A tug of a smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. Despite his disdain for her novels, perhaps he knew her schooling and reading were beneficial.

  Mayor Little grunted. “Too smart. She won’t take your word for things, will question every little thing you . . .”