Living London Read Online Free PDF

eaten my fill, I wandered in the direction of the library, directed by Mrs. Trimbleton. She had balked at my early rising and fussed over my health during breakfast. When she noticed my hair, clothes, and all-around state of disarray, she promptly sent me back to my room and asked Libby, my personal maid, to see to my "toilet," as she called it. Personally, I thought I had done pretty well on my own.
    Libby had tugged ruthlessly on my hair till it obeyed her every whim and was secured to my scalp with at least a hundred pins. A headache was in my future. What was worse, the corset had to be properly laced, as she put it. All the Regency romance novels I’d read didn’t come close to explaining the strangling sensation of being laced up and the futility of trying to get a lung full of air. Apparently, breathing was optional in Regency times.
    Now feeling much more confined, uncomfortable, and poodle-like, I sought solace in my one true love—books. While searching the shelves, I found a Byron I had read before. I was about to sit down when a man entered. "Miss Westin, I'm your butler, Wains." He bowed crisply and proceeded to speak without any expression. "I've been told of your situation by Mrs. Trimbleton, and I'm here to let you know you have a caller. A gentleman caller. Are you at home?"
    I glanced at him, then around the room. "I believe so," I answered, unsure. What a strange question!
    As if sensing my confusion, Wains explained himself. "If I may be so bold, miss?" He continued on without waiting for any consent on my end, and it made me smile. "The gentleman is the one who escorted…or well, carried you home yesterday after your ordeal in the park. A Morgan Ansley, Marqess of Ashby. Do you wish to see him, or would you prefer to tell him you're not receiving callers?"
    I glanced down and bit my lip. On one hand, my curiosity was burning to find out more about this guy. Yet, on the other hand, I was afraid I’d make a fool of myself. Indecision warred for a moment before my curiosity won out. I glanced up. Wains gazed at me patiently until I nodded.
    "Very well, I'll show him into the blue parlor."
    As Wains turned to leave, I remembered I needed directions, or I'd be opening up doors for a week before I found the blue parlor. "Wains! Where is the blue parlor? Could you please show me or give me directions or something?"
    It was humbling asking for directions in my own home, but on the other hand, it was quite impressive to need directions in one's own home because it was that grand. The pride and humility balanced each other out as I followed my tall, thin, and austere butler to the correct room. I settled myself down on the soft settee. Nervously, I crossed my legs then uncrossed them, folding one ankle behind the other, and waited. My fingers tapped with anxious energy, but I stopped my fidgeting just as the door opened.
    Wains allowed the Marquess to enter first, and I glanced down to his boots as they thumped solidly on hardwood floors.
    The boots were a glossy black that contrasted with the tight pants that he wore. Though I had always been an activist against the boys-wearing-girl's-jeans movement, I had to admit he filled them out well, and there was nothing feminine about it. Forcing my gaze away from his muscular legs, I noticed his shirt was blindingly white in contrast to his fitted jacket and perfectly tied cravat. I inwardly grinned to myself at his dress. I had often wondered what a cravat looked like on a gentleman the many times I'd read about it in a book. Now I knew, and it was more than appealing.
    It was a good thing I'd noticed his clothes first. After seeing his face I doubt I'd ever notice anything else ever again. Dark eyelashes framed piercing blue eyes, hooded by an arched eyebrow straight out of photos of New York's fashion week. His lips were full, and the lines around his face gave me the impression that he smiled a lot. His dark chestnut-brown hair was longer than I'd expected—in