Page 281 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

Estelle widened her eyes at him meaningfully.Not here, you romantic fool.

“...like you’re heading out,” he finished smoothly. “May I accompany you somewhere?”

Absolutely not.

She could not trust herself alone with him.

“Unnecessary,” she assured him. “Though I thank you for the gentlemanly offer.”

He flinched.

Hm. Remembering what hedidn’toffer her, was he?

Would they be married now, if he had? Or would she still have rolled back her shoulders and set off in search of fame and fortune of her own?

That she hadn’t found it, well... Estelle hoped her one-time lover needn’t learn the full extent of that situation.

After all, Aaron was a fancy London solicitor now. He’d be underfoot for a few days—perhaps through the end of Christmastide—and then he’d be on his way out of her life all over again.

Just as she wanted it.

“Miss Blair’s mother is the castle housekeeper,” Mr. Marlowe said helpfully.

Estelle glared at him. He couldn’t sack her for her facial expressions. They’d signed a contract.

“They have a suite in the servants’ quarters,” Mr. Marlowe continued.

She bore a hole through his patrician face with the ferocity of her glare.

“Right next to yours,” Mr. Marlowe finished.

Estelle’s mouth fell open.

Right next to—

What? How?

“How lovely,” Aaron murmured, his gaze on hers.

It was not lovely. It was disastrous.

Estelle curled her fingers into fists, then forced herself to relax her hands to hide her distress.

No.

He wasn’tstaying. Not permanently. She presumed he would remain through the festive season. Where did she expect him to sleep? Out in the snow? Of course Mr. Marlowe would give him a guest chamber.

And of course, Mr. Marlowe being Mr. Marlowe, that guest room would be in the servants’ quarters.

Estelle sighed.

All hope of hiding her impoverished circumstances from Aaron was now lost, thanks to the loose tongue of her so-called benefactor.

The last time she had seen Aaron, she’d informed him a woman could not only direct prestigious plays, but that Estelle herself would soon be one of the most celebrated directors on Drury Lane.

Here she was, four hundred miles from Drury Lane.

Directing plays not in the Theatre Royal but in a stone-hewn amphitheatre, upon whose stage acted earnest villagers who had never left Cressmouth, much less taken in an opera at the King’s Theatre.

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