Free One Night in London by Caroline Linden

over, tracing one fingertip gently over the delicate veins in her wrist. “A few months, at least—six, perhaps, for proper mourning.”
    “Oh.” She sighed. “I see.” She got to her feet, tugging her hand free of his grasp. “I had better go in,” she said, glancing over her shoulder toward the house. “Mama will be getting curious, and I will have to tell her . . . about the postponement, that is . . .”
    “Of course.” He rose and reached for her. Normally Louisa accepted his kiss with a blush and a smile, but this time she lifted her face with an almost tragic expression. He brushed his lips against hers, dismayed to feel them tremble. “I’ll speak to your father to explain about the postponement,” he told her. “You don’t have to say a word if you don’t wish to.”
    “If you like,” she whispered, looking at him with glistening eyes. “He isn’t home at present. Oh—Oh, Edward!” She shivered and took a step forward into his arms.
    “There, now,” he said, holding her lightly and patting her on the back. “I’ll call on him tomorrow. It will come out all right.”
    She stood rather stiff and still in his loose embrace, then stepped back. “I hope so. I—” She bit her lip. Her face was still very pale. “Good day, Edward.”
    “Good day, dearest.”
    She closed her eyes at the last word, but then rallied a smile for him. Edward bowed and left, appreciating all over again that he had chosen the ideal bride. Her father, Earl Halston, would understand he must observe some mourning for his father, but they could still be married by Christmas. As for the rest . . . he devoutly hoped no one need ever hear about that.
    F rancesca woke with a mood as gloomy as the day. After returning home yesterday she’d reviewed her lists of solicitors again, and remembered what each man had said to her. Alconbury had come by and tried to persuade her to come to the theater with him that night, saying she was in dreadful need of raising her spirits, but she couldn’t bear even that. She’d sent him on his way, and consoled herself with a few glasses of wine. It had struck her very hard that Ellen had taken Georgina, even harder than the loss of Wittiers. At least before, she’d known where Georgina was, even if she hadn’t been allowed to see her. Now she didn’t even have the hope of seeing her. What if Ellen had run off to America? Or to the Continent? It would take forever to track her down, particularly if old Mr. Kendall remained blithely indifferent to her concerns about Georgina’s care.
    Her housekeeper brought the morning post and newspapers with her breakfast. Francesca sat at the table and flipped through them, barely looking at each one. She didn’t feel like accepting invitations now, and she couldn’t bear to answer her aunt’s letter. Aunt Evelyn had been more mother to her than her real mother, raising her from the time she was five. She put Evelyn’s letter aside with a twinge of guilt and drank her tea. Her head hurt. She hadn’t slept very well, and no doubt there were dark circles under her eyes from it. She thought about going back to bed, just for a little while.
    “Lord Alconbury’s sent a posy of violets,” said Mrs. Hotchkiss, setting the flowers in the center of the table. “Quite pretty, I think.”
    Francesca sighed. “Very pretty. And so thoughtful of him.”
    “Such a gentleman,” murmured Mrs. Hotchkiss as she bustled out of the room with the empty teapot.
    Francesca smiled wryly. Her housekeeper thought she should marry again, and had decided Alconbury was the right man. He was certainly pleasant enough: handsome, charming, and intelligent. She simply couldn’t imagine going to bed with him, though, and right now thoughts of men and marriage were the farthest thing from her mind. Everything except Georgina was far from her mind, it seemed. She turned over the newspapers, barely seeing the page. Unless Ellen had published her new location in the