Chapter Three

E dmund made it to Parliament in under a quarter of an hour and asked Lola to wait. Flower girl turned coachman—or was there such a thing as a coachwoman? No matter, she needed the money and was ready to do any honest work. And he'd needed a ride. The idea occurred to her that he might have other places to go. Perhaps this was an opportunity for her.

When he returned, the duke heaved himself back into the carriage and checked his pocket watch. "It's only ten o'clock."

"Now what?" Lola asked, ready to drive him wherever he had in mind.

His eyes skimmed her skin as if he was touching her with his fingertips and it sent gooseflesh down her arms. "I don't have anywhere to be until seven o'clock tonight."

"What's at seven, Your Grace?" she asked before she could stop herself. She was being rude. Lola bit her lip.

"The opera."

In for a penny, in for a pound. She'd already been too bold, so what difference did it make if she offended him now? "How wonderful! With costumes and an orchestra? Oh, please tell me you have a box and opera glasses!"

He squinted. "I do have a box. And opera glasses."

Lola clapped in glee, forgetting the reins. The mare tossed her head and took off at a trot, heading toward a patch of green grass she could see just down the street.

The carriage swerved, and Lola lost her balance.

A firm but gentle hand gripped her waist. "I have you." Heat radiated from where the duke's fingers pressed against her through the layers of her gown, sending a shiver of awareness down her spine that seemed to whisper, this man is danger and salvation .

The duke took control of the reins and slowed the horse to a reluctant walk.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked.

"To Regent Street. You'll need a gown if you're attending the opera tonight."

Lola wasn't sure she heard him correctly. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to assume, but you seemed rather smitten with the prospect of the opera. It occurs to me that at least one of us should enjoy the performance."

Smitten with the opera? No. Perhaps with something else entirely. A girl like her had no prospects. But how did the saying go—one shan't look a gift horse in the mouth?

They arrived at a department store on the corner of Oxford Street. Lola read the sign over the doors:

Debenlope, Freeworth & McKentin

The duke hopped off the carriage with athletic ease, reached up, and helped Lola off.

"Pick any gown you like. I'll buy it for you in a few minutes."

"I mustn't let a stranger purchase a gown I'll only wear one night."

"Then buy another for the night after."

"Your Grace, I live in an attic. I use woolen coats and knitted stockings."

"Then buy those, too."

She stepped back and quirked a brow. "Why?"

"You did me a great favor by driving me to Parliament today. I nearly missed an important deadline. Consider it a thank you."

"Your words are thanks enough, Your Grace." Lola curtsied and turned, ready to climb back onto the phaeton. "Good day—"

"Wait!" The duke reached for her, but he only caught her lower arm. An unsettling jolt shot fire bolts through her veins, springing her heart into a hasty gallop.

Lola froze, her breath catching as she turned back to face him. The duke's eyes were ablaze, reflecting the heat of emotions she couldn't yet decipher.

"Please," he murmured, his grip gentle but insistent, "Don't go just yet."

For a moment, the world around them dissolved—no bustling streets, no distant chatter, only the charged space between them. Her resolve wavered, and despite every sensible thought urging her to retreat, she found herself anchored by his earnest gaze.

In that heartbeat, Lola realized that he'd brought a heat to her heart she would not easily put out.

*

Edmund sent a messenger to announce he would attend opening night. Too bad he couldn't see Brewster's face when he received the note.

When he arrived at the dressmaker's, ready to purchase some nice things for the girl he'd all but hired for the night, he floundered. The flower girl stood outside one of the most elegant stores in London, face buried in her hands, shoulders drooping. She sobbed uncontrollably.

"Miss Viola?" Edmund touched her shoulder, but she didn't turn to face him. "What happened?"

"Nothing. I'm just Lola." She heaved, and a sweet sniffling emerged from behind her hands, a slight sound with a girlish vulnerability that tugged at Edmund's heartstrings.

"Something must have occurred to make you cry. Pray tell."

"Nothing happened. That's the thing," she cried.

"Where's the dress?"

"They didn't let me in. The servant's door is around the corner, they said."

Edmund pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. "Those stupid idiots."

Lola blinked and licked a tear off her cupid's bow. "You're a duke. You curse?"

"Oh, this one can do much worse!"

She beamed at him, still blotchy from crying, lashes adorably fanned out and stuck together with tears.

Edmund brought both hands to her cheeks. "Listen to me. You are a rare beauty, and as with a rough gem, it takes a connoisseur to see the glimmer within."

She sniffled and pouted.

"Let's show them all you're a diamond of the first water, shall we?"

She nodded and took his arm. Her hand fit perfectly as if she'd belonged there all along and just didn't know it—until this moment.