Sinful in Satin by Madeline Hunter Page A

be as if I never left, and you still have Katherine and Mrs. Hill there.”
    “I suppose you are correct.” Daphne picked up her reticule. “I should go home to them now. I will write to my solicitor about this partnership and have it done as quickly as the settlement of your mother’s estate permits.”
    Celia walked with her to the front door of the house. Daphne paused there. “I accept your reasons for living here, but I do not like your being alone, Celia. I wish I had brought my pistol and could leave it with you.”
    “I will not be alone for long, and I will be safe for the short while that I am.” She felt a little guilty not telling Daphne about Mr. Albrighton. The revelation would lead only to more questions than could be answered, however.
    Daphne departed with a kiss. Celia watched her step up into the gig.
    Celia suspected that soon it would probably not be only Katherine and Mrs. Hill at the country property where The Rarest Blooms was housed. Daphne had a habit of finding and taking in stray women of ambiguous respectability and histories.
    No doubt she would find more of them, although Celia sometimes thought it would be better if Daphne did not. At seven and twenty, it might be time for Daphne to step out of that sanctuary herself.
     
     
    “A re you sure thatyou wanttheshelf like this,Miss Pennifold? It will be odd.”
    Thomas, a lad of fifteen, held the board for the second shelf, frowning at how the stepped levels in this structure would face the windows and not the chamber’s space. This despite Celia explaining its purpose and showing him the drawing.
    “Just like that, Thomas. That way the warmth and light from the higher plants will not shadow the lower ones.”
    He shrugged, and nailed the plank into place.
    In the last few days Celia had made herself familiar to the shops in the neighborhood through her patronage, and had let it be known she had a bit of work for a boy who knew carpentry. Thomas’s father, who owned a draper’s shop, had been glad to lend him for the work.
    Celia noted how Thomas used more nails for the plank than she had planned. She had bought sparingly and would have to get more. While she calculated how many, subtle noises up above told her that Mr. Albrighton was moving about.
    He had insisted she would barely be aware of his existence. She was discovering, however, that his presence in this house could not be ignored. She might not see him often, but he was very much here .
    She knew, for example, that he was above most of the time during the days. She would hear his footfalls making impressions in the floorboards. They served as little reminders that she did not enjoy either complete privacy or total isolation.
    When she did see him, the experience contained a degree of intimacy that could not be avoided. They cohabited in the same house, after all. Their spirits shared this space even if their bodies rarely occupied the same chamber. And he had touched her twice now. That was like spilling oil that could never be mopped up completely again.
    Every morning he came down to fetch his own water around ten o’clock. She had taken to listening for his steps on the stairs. After the first day he was never again in such dishabille, but he was never entirely dressed yet either. No cravat, of course, since he had not yet shaved. No waistcoat either. He would don a frock coat, however, so that he appeared only halfway disrespectable.
    There was much of the bedchamber in the way he appeared at ten o’clock. Hair long and unbound, mussed and free, neck exposed, and new beard shadowing his jaws—even his very polite greetings unsettled her because he looked like that. His appearance reminded her that he had been close nearby while she had lain in her bed, both comforted by the safety his presence brought and dismayed by her awareness of him.
    The steps sounded a bit louder. He would be making his little journey to the garden well very soon. He did not appear to mind the