Page 22 of Sinfully Wed
“Three times, I think,” Miss Maplehurst interjected.
“Lord Emerson and I had little in common. I expect you and I have less,” Miss Whitehall spoke, the air filling with the caustic stench of onion once more. The slate of her eyes hardened as if daring Jordan to challenge the assumption.
Hostile and a troll. Delightful.
Whitehall expected Jordan to be respectful and behave as an ardent suitor. The words had been part of the contract Jordan signed only this morning at Patchahoo’s office. But nothing of how he must behave after he and Odessa were wed.
Ambition often makes a man blind to all else.
Today’s meeting only strengthened Jordan’s resolve that his marriage would be one of distance.
“I’m recently arrived in London.” Jordan struggled for a topic of conversation. Polite discourse had never been his strong suit. “Haven’t visited in years. But you’ve lived here your whole life, haven’t you, Miss Whitehall?”
Miss Whitehall’s pert little nose wrinkled like one of his pigs scenting the scraps he’d set out. Annoyance flashed across her face before she looked down at her lap.
“I was born in Reading, my lord, but we always kept a house in London,” she replied, lips barely moving. Miss Whitehall, for all that she was a troll and smelled horrible, had a lovely speaking voice.
“Then you must know the city quite well. Better than me, at least. I’ve taken my sisters on a variety of carriage rides through the city, but the usual amusements are rather dull.”
Miss Whitehall wiggled about as if a bee were caught under her bum.
No bee. Just a great deal of fleshiness.
“Are there other recommendations you might make? Something unusual, perhaps? Off the beaten path, so to speak.”
“I suppose I might make a suggestion, though I do not leave my home often.” Miss Whitehall’s nose wrinkled once more, annoyed at having to converse with him. Or perhaps she’d only caught a whiff of herself. “Everyone visits Gunter’s. Or takes a ride through the park to see and be seen. Or the museum if you are inclined towards more academic pursuits.”
“Is there nothing more exciting to be had in London than an ice or spying into a carriage rolling through the park? And I would only take my sisters to the museum if there are mummies on display.”
A spark of something very much like interest lit in Miss Whitehall’s eyes. Mummies were of more interest to this strange creature than Gunter’s.
Another puff of onion was launched in his direction, but the slate blue of her eyes gleamed with interest. “A fine collection of mummies resides at the museum, along with a host of instruments used in the embalming process.”
Jordan nodded, thinking of Tamsin, who liked history. And mummies.
“Have your sisters visited the London Colosseum in Regents Park?” Miss Maplehurst spoke up. “There is a panoramic of the city which is quite divine.”
He gave a roll of his shoulders. “A possibility. I think they’d prefer the mummies.”
“I sense you are looking for entertainment that is out of the ordinary, my lord.” Miss Whitehall leaned towards Jordan.
Gazing back at her, he was struck again by the color of her eyes. So beautiful and wholly out of place considering the appearance of her. There was intelligence hovering in the slate blue, along with a great deal of passion for the current topic. Her features had softened, making heralmostpretty, though Jordan thought it more a case of dim lighting.
“Tamsin and Aurora are inquisitive by nature, Miss Whitehall. As am I. We’ve taken in the usual sights and found them tolerable, but not worthy of acclaim.” Dunnings should have made them greedy for things like a modiste shop. A confectioner. A walk through the park. Tamsin declared them all mundane pursuits which lost their luster quickly. “Is there nothing else you can recommend besides the mummies?”
“Youmusttake them to the wax exhibition. On Baker Street,” Miss Whitehall said, enthusiasm spilling out of her.
“Wax?” The first thought Jordan had been that she was suggesting a trip to a candle maker. Fitting because her body seemed to simplymeltaround her on the settee. Many women had generous forms, something Jordan appreciated. But not like…this.
“Madame Tussaud.” Those slate eyes shot him a look of disbelief. “Well surely, you’ve heard of her?”
“I’ve only been in London a fortnight, Miss Whitehall. I’m not familiar with everyone in society, having been gone from it for so long.”
“Madame Tussaud is a legend,” she said in an awed whisper. “A creative genius. Her medium is wax. She toured the Continent and all of England with her exhibit before deciding to settle in London.”
Jordan shrugged. “I’ve never heard of her.”
Miss Whitehall’s eyes popped wider in disbelief. “She makes…effigies. Lifelike reproductions from wax. As a young woman in France, she began by making death masks of Madame Guillotine’s victims. Some are quite…gruesome.”
