Page 49

Then he leaned back, studying me like I was the puzzle he was trying to solve.

“Do you believe that you’ll be someone worth remembering?”

“I must believe it.” The words came out more vulnerable than I intended. “Otherwise, what’s the point? If we’re all just going to be erased—whether by time or by people like you—then why does any of it matter?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but movement near the entrance caught both our attention.

Constance Sterling swept into the Copper Kettle like she owned it. Pale pink silk, elaborate curls under a fashionable hat, and a smile that gleamed sharp as cut glass. Her gaze swept the room before locking on us.

“August!” Her voice carried, bright and performative. “What a delightful surprise. I had no idea you’d be dining here tonight.”

August’s jaw tightened. “Constance. This is unexpected.”

“Isn’t it?” She glided toward our table, positioning herself far too close to him. “I was meeting Lady Pemberton for tea—she’s right over there—when I spotted you.” Her eyes flicked to me, cool and assessing. “And Adeline’s. . . cousin, of course.”

“Miss Whitmore and I were just finishing our meal,” August said, polite but firm.

“Oh, surely you have time for a quick word?” Constance’s hand landed on his shoulder, possessive. “I’d love to clear up that unfortunate misunderstanding from earlier at your home.”

The way she looked at me when she said “misunderstanding” made it clear she blamed me entirely.

I set down my fork with deliberate care. The pie had turned heavy in my stomach. “Perhaps I should give you two some privacy.”

“That's not necessary—” August started, but Constance cut him off.

“How thoughtful of you, Miss Whitmore. Yes, August and I do have some matters to discuss. Family matters.”

The emphasis on “family” was pointed. A reminder that she had claims on him that I didn’t, that her relationship with him existed long before my inconvenient arrival.

I pushed back my chair, the legs scraping against the floor. “Of course. Wouldn't want to intrude on family business.”

August's expression darkened. “Lily.”

But I was already standing, grabbing my cloak from the back of my chair. The room was suddenly stifling—too warm, too small, too full of Constance's cloying perfume and proprietary smiles.

“I'll see myself out,” I said, already pushing back my chair. “Thank you for the meal, Mr. Hawthorne.”

The formality was deliberate. A reminder that whatever intimacy had been building between us over dinner was an illusion. He was my captor. I was his prisoner. And Constance was the woman who had legitimate claims on his time and attention.

“Miss Whitmore, wait⁠—”

Constance’s hand on his arm stopped him. “Oh, let her go, August. We have so much to discuss.” She slid into my vacated seat, triumphant. “Now, about the Pemberton dinner. . .”

I didn't look back. I turned and walked toward the exit, spine straight, head high. Every eye in the restaurant followed me—the mysterious cousin making a scene, leaving the gentleman with his proper lady.

Let them talk. Let them whisper. I didn't care.

Behind me, I heard Constance's voice, bright and deliberate: “I'm so glad we have this chance to talk properly. Without distractions.”

The door closed behind me with a sharp click, cutting off whatever August's response might have been.

The night air hit me like a slap—cool and bracing after the stifling warmth of the restaurant. I pulled my cloak tighter, suddenly aware of how alone I was on these dark streets.

I should wait. Should stand by the door until August could extricate himself from Constance's clutches.

But pride and anger propelled me forward. Down the street, away from the warm lights and the woman who'd just claimed what she thought was hers.

He'd follow. Eventually. Once Constance had said whatever territorial nonsense she needed to say.