Edith Layton Read Online Free PDF Page B

do more. He hadn’t time. His ambition was no match for the lung infection he contracted in the new world. If he hadn’t had the Ameses as distant relatives there for her to apply to, Lucy didn’t know what she’d have done. She knew what to do now. She was determined to get back some of what her husband have given up. For Jamie.
    Lucy thought of numbers now. She added themwith the same ritual care other women used saying their nightly prayers. Two more years working here. Only two, and she’d have the fare. A few years’ work in England and she’d have the fare back, if she wanted to leave again. But she might not have to.
    She couldn’t stay with her mother. Her mother was widowed herself now, and living with her brother. It wouldn’t be fair. It also wouldn’t be likely. Her mother had never forgiven her for rejecting her choice of a son-in-law, a proper, ordinary suitor who couldn’t hold a candle to the most dashing stranger Lucy had ever met. Her mother’s letters were still filled with recriminations and regrets.
    But she and Jamie might be asked to live with her late husband’s family. They were wealthy and had an estate with room for a dozen impoverished widows and their sons. Lucy remembered a grand house and beautiful grounds. Jamie’s grandfather was gone, his uncle was married, but had no children yet. The baron Hunt was relatively young and would have his own sons one day. But Lucy was sure he’d be impressed with his long-lost nephew even if he had a pack of sons himself. She’d written to him about Jamie, only stopping when she got the iciest of polite replies, and no invitation. Mothers were fond, and letters could lie, but she knew if the baron got one look at Jamie, he’d see his worth.
    He’d have that look, Lucy vowed. Jamie would go home. He’d meet his grandmother at long last. More important to his future, he’d meet his uncle. She’d see to the rest.
    Not all the rest, of course. She couldn’t afford to send him to Eton, where his father had gone, not if she sold her skin along with her body. She’d show him what his father had opted to leave, and tell him it had been for the sake of his future. Then at least he’d know where he came from and value his history. If nothing more, she’d do that. Seeing the elegant Mr. Wycoff tonight showed her what she’d left behind, too, Lucy thought, slow warmth creeping through her tired body, easing her wakeful mind. A world of balls and parties, of new clothes and devoted servants. She’d never been rich, but her father had been squire of their little village, and they’d lived moderately well. Deliciously well, compared to now. But Papa was gone now, and she wouldn’t ask Mama to fund her rash daughter, who’d made her own bed—as she was reminded in every infrequent letter.
    Still, she wasn’t Cinderella. She helped the Ameses run their hotel, true. But working for one’s bread wasn’t such a shame here as it would be at home…. At home , she thought, sleepily amused. She’d lived here ten years and still thought of England as home. She was still homesick for it. And she’d only herself to blame. For believing herself in love and not knowing love meant responsibility. For thinking love was all feelings and excitement, laughter and adventure. For trusting, and giving all her trust to one man—who’d carried her away to a new world and a new life.
    She turned on her side and curled into a knotalmost as tight as the one in her chest, remembering life before she’d left home with Francis all those years ago. So she thought about Wycoff and his knowing smile instead. And mused about what else he might know. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to think of those dangerous feelings. But what was the harm now? Now she knew the difference between dreams, wakeful or sleeping, and reality.
    Eight years since she’d been held by a man…amazing, she thought drowsily. Though Francis had been little more than a boy then,