“When we get to Rochester, I’ll hire a hack to take me back to London.” Dinah’s voice was quiet, but it seemed loud in the silence.
Oliver stiffened at her words. “Running away, Dinah?”
She didn’t answer, but it didn’t matter. They both knew she was.
He shook his head. “I won’t permit you to ride all the way back to London alone. It’s not safe.”
“Grim can accompany—”
“No. If you insist on returning to London, I’ll go with you.”
Her face paled. “You can’t do that, Oliver. You’re meant to be spending the holidays at Cliff’s Edge. Your family is expecting you.”
Oliver laughed, but the taste of it was bitter on his tongue. “And spend the next few weeks fending off Miss Spence? No. I’ll send my apologies to my family. They’ll understand.”
“I don’t think—”
“I said no. Either we both return to London, or we both go from Rochester to Sittingbourne, and from there north to Cliff’s Edge. Those are your choices, Miss Bishop. We’ll arrive in Rochester in the next half hour. You have until then to make up your mind.”
CHAPTER 7
ROCHESTER, ENGLAND
After Dinah put an end to Oliver’s courtship, neither of them knew what to say to the other. With every silent mile that passed, the dark, tangled thing inside her chest pulled tighter and tighter.
She was no stranger to awkward situations. They were common enough when one was an actress on London’s most notorious stage. But she’d never encountered a situation quite so awkward as traveling with a gentleman whose proposals she’d just rejected.
Right before she’d kissed him, that is, and before he’d kissed her back—a kiss so sweetly devastating it had been all she could do not to climb into his lap.
But there was nothing for it. She couldn’t return to London—not if Oliver insisted on accompanying her. No, all she could do now was get through the rest of the journey and then flee Cliff’s Edge as soon as they arrived, just like the coward Oliver had accused her of being.
Without Dinah there to distract him, Oliver might take a fancy to Miss Spence, after all. He could be smitten with her by Twelfth Night, madly in love with her soon thereafter, and married to her by the spring thaw. It was just what Dinah hoped would happen—of course, it was. And if there was a hollow, frozen space inside her chest where her heart should be, well, it would save her a lot of bother, wouldn’t it?
It wasn’t as if she had any use for her heart.
Given her morose outlook, she was certain she’d find Rochester a dismal, gloomy place, but as if determined to make a mockery of her feelings the town was light, bright and absurdly picturesque.
Dinah’s spirits gave a sluggish twitch at her first glimpse of Rochester Cathedral. The rows of arched, stained glass windows glittered gold, red and green in the sun, and the central spire soared high into the sky, piercing the endless blue and catching the edge of the white clouds on its tip.
She pressed her face to the glass as the coach made its way down High Street. Once they’d reached the far end Oliver signaled to Ferris to stop the carriage, then he turned to Dinah. “Would you care for a walk? You might enjoy the shop.”
Dinah tried not to notice the frigid politeness with which Oliver addressed her, but another shard of ice penetrated her useless heart. Still, she pasted a smile on her lips and held out her hand to him. “Yes, of course.”
He helped her from the carriage and led her to a tiny shop on the corner—a bright, cheerful little place called Claridge’s. Dinah peeked through the large window that looked out onto the street and gasped with pleasure at the riot of color and movement she glimpsed inside.
And then there was the music.
One tinkling note chased another through the closed door of the shop onto the sidewalk beyond, where they hung for a quivering instant before they were swept up into the cold air. There was no pattern or rhyme to it, just dozens of notes drifting about like snowflakes, but what should have been a confusing cacophony somehow melted together into a glorious symphony of sound.
“Shall we, Miss Bishop?” Oliver opened the door of the shop and ushered her inside.
As lovely as the shop was from the outside, inside it was a wonderland of twirling, spinning, glittery things—a child’s dream come true. Dinah paused a few steps from the threshold, her mouth falling open. Her gaze found one wonderful music box after another, and the heaviness in her heart gave way to pure delight.
“Lord Oliver Angel?” A plump lady hurried from behind the counter and approached them with a smile. “Well, it must be you, mustn’t it? I don’t expect any other customers today, what with it being Christmastime.”
“Mrs. Claridge. How do you do?” Oliver strode across the shop to greet her. “It’s kind of you to meet me this morning. This lady is Miss Bishop.”
Dinah nodded, her lips curving in an involuntary smile. Mrs. Claridge, with her sweet face and silvery gray hair reminded her a bit of a much beloved, now deceased grandmother. “What a lovely shop you have, Mrs. Claridge.”
“Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Claridge beamed. “I have your music box ready, my lord. I’ll just go fetch it for you, shall I?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Claridge.”
Mrs. Claridge disappeared through a door that led to the back of shop. Dinah wandered around the store, gawking at the bevy of mechanical wonders. There were large boxes and small, and polished wooden music boxes with enameled lids. There were music boxes where one could peek through a small glass window and watch the cylinders inside churn out the tune. There were painted porcelain boxes, gilt and silver boxes, and boxes shaped like all manner of different things. There were birds and dancers, and even one shaped like a harp, and another like a tiny pianoforte.
“Charming, aren’t they?” Oliver murmured, but he wasn’t looking at the music boxes.
He was looking at her.
The shop, the lovely boxes and the tinkling notes all fell away for an endless moment as their gazes held. A thousand unspoken words passed between them until Dinah’s cheeks heated, and she tore her gaze away. “They truly are.”
“Every child born into the Angel family receives the gift of a music box on the day of their birth. William and Penelope asked me to choose one for Baby Angel.”
Dinah couldn’t say whether she was more astonished to find such lovely things existed, or that there were children fortunate enough to have one for themselves. She reached out to trace a spray of vibrant blue cornflowers on the lid of a small, ivory-colored porcelain box which had been put to one side on the display counter. “I can’t imagine anyone not liking one of these.” She opened the lid and gasped when a familiar strain met her ears. “My grandmother used to sing me this song before she died. I was very young at the time, but I’ve always remembered it.”
Oliver leaned closer to listen, then murmured, “Voi Che Sapete, from Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro.”
He lay his fingers on her wrist. Startled, Dinah turned to him, but he didn’t speak. He simply looked down at her with the oddest expression on his face. He seemed to be struggling for words. When they emerged at last, his voice was hoarse. “Dinah, will you let me—”