Nat left the picture with me, and I never returned it. It was tucked into the corner of my vanity mirror. I looked at it every day.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I roll my eyes and scoff. “Of course I do.”
Livingston laughs so loudly the sound makes me gasp slightly. I faintly smile because that sound holds so much life. It’s rich with memories. Of happiness, tears, smiles, and laughter. It’s part of Livingston. But I haven’t heard him laugh like that in so long. I almost forgot about that laughter.
My heart unexpectedly flips again. I have the sudden urge to reach out and brush my fingers across his cheek. Livingston’s laughter fades as he sees the look in my eye.
Our moment of peace is interrupted by a collective sound of voices moving toward us. Livingston smiles as the remaining bachelors approach, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I’ll leave you with your bachelors. But thank you again.”
He leaves my side before I can say a word. Conrad replaces his spot and immediately heads straight into a conversation about how impolite Taylor was. I nod, but the entire time, I watch Livingston walk back to Belgrave.
It hits me then, the image of Livingston sitting at the picnic with the stark, desperate look in his eyes when Taylor asked him to discuss the war. At that moment, my heart felt strong enough for the both of us. I would’ve said anything to make things right for him, even if they were wrong for me. The revelation rattles me. What else am I capable of doing for him?
Once Livingston disappears from sight, I try to focus on the final five men. I’m getting close to the end. Less dates to have. This should alleviate my worries. If anything, I feel more urgency than when there were thirty bachelors to choose from.
“All right, all right. Let’s allow Miss Pleasonton some breathing room,” Serene says with a clap of her hands.
The men break apart for Serene, and I can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. Serene tells the bachelors it was a pleasure having them at Belgrave. I give my good-byes, and as they walk away, some of the tension leaves my body.
Serene silently stands beside me for several moments before she asks, “How do you feel?”
“Overwhelmed,” I confess.
“I want to tell you that you shouldn’t be. But that would be a lie because things are about to get remarkably interesting,” she says with a mischievous grin.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Rainey
That night, sleep doesn’t come easily. I toss and turn, dreaming about the one person who causes me to act as mad as a March hare. I think of our conversation today and the heated looks he gave me during the picnic.
With a groan of frustration, I sit up and punch my pillow, pretending it’s Livingston. If we didn’t kiss, perhaps none of the uncomfortable tension would exist between us.
It’s then I hear a loud noise at my window. Suddenly alert, I stare at the window and see a dark shadow. The lock wiggles. Frantically, I look around my room for something to use as a weapon. I only have my curling iron at my vanity table to use as a makeshift weapon.
Jumping out of bed, I snatch the iron, clutching it as though I’m getting ready to hit a baseball. My eyes never waver from the window. Hinges creak as the windows move upward. Someone clutches the window frame. Their body dips in. I take quiet, tentative steps toward them. Whoever is breaking in is just as quiet as I am but is dedicated to the task. They don’t see me sneaking up on them.
Too bad. That works in my favor.
My God has one of the bachelors lost their mind and is trying to get inside my room? That’s the only possible explanation. Never did I think this would happen. My grip tightens on the iron as my heart rate quickens.
The large frame is still hidden by the shadows, but there’s no mistaking it’s a male. I lift the iron, ready to take a swing, when the intruder speaks. “Rainey, put the weapon down.”
In an instant, I recognize the voice. Slowly, I lower my weapon and squint as though that will help me see better. With the window open, the streetlamps outside bring a weak glow into my room. “Livingston?” I hiss.
“Of course it’s me. Who else would it be?”
“I didn’t know.” I scramble to my nightstand and turn on my lamp. A dim glow illuminates the room and reveals Livingston standing there with the same clothes he wore during the picnic. He seems larger in my room. The planes and angles of his face and wide shoulders are more pronounced. His male vitality is impossible to ignore. “I don’t have guests waltzin’ into my room in the middle of the night.”
Livingston snorts. “It’s hardly the middle of the night.” I watch him pull out his pocket watch. “It’s a quarter till one.”
“That’s the middle of the night for me,” I reply.
“For me, it’s the beginnin’.” He grins and then looks me over. “Were you gonna shoot me again?”
I look at the curling iron and walk to my vanity. “Quite possibly.”
That is a fabrication on my part. I don’t have arrows laying around my room. My last one was left at Livingston’s. I hope it’s still embedded in the armoire, and he looks at it every single morning and thinks of me. I hope he’s reminded I will never conform to what the world expects of me.
“Find a better weapon.”
“Find a better entrance,” I point out and place the iron on the vanity with a solid thwack.
A corner of Livingston’s mouth curls up.
“Now what did you need that couldn’t possibly wait until mornin’ time?” I cross my arms over my chest. I’m not fully awake and prepared for Livingston’s presence. That’s why my heart races the way it does. Nothing else.
Livingston doesn’t answer and instead walks around my room. Growing up, he saw my room in passing when the door was open. I would try to avoid that, though, and the second I heard his voice, I would jump up from whatever I was doing and shut my bedroom door because I didn’t put it past him to pull any shenanigans.
My bedroom has changed, and Livingston notices. He peruses my rows of books stopping to read the titles on a few spines before he continues. He looks over his shoulder at me. “People have libraries, you know.”
“I understand that, but I prefer to have my bookshelves nearby.”
“Why?”
“Because bookshelves are a journey for your eyes. To remember the places you’ve experienced, the characters you’ve encountered. The laughter and heartache each writer has given you is incalculable.” I lift a shoulder, suddenly feeling foolish for my fanciful explanation. “I could stare at my bookshelves all day.”
Livingston smirks, his eyes dancing with amusement. He turns his attention back to the shelves and continues to peruse at a leisurely pace as though my room was a bookstore and he was a paying customer. I know the second he spots The Shepherd of the Hills on the shelf by the way the corner of his mouth curls up. Did he presume I wouldn’t keep the book? I’m far more nostalgic than anyone would think.
Livingston hasn’t spotted the picture from the day he came home on my vanity, but if he continues to thoroughly look around the room, he will.
I clear my throat. “Again, to what do I owe this unexpected, late-night, and very much inappropriate visit?”