Page 12 of A Second Chance for Love

By midnight there was a thick layer of ice on her water basin. By two in the morning she’d fed the last of her coals into the fire. By three o’clock it was so cold that her fingers were blue and she broke down and donned the beautiful fur-lined gloves before burrowing beneath the heavy fur cloak, taking care not to soil or damage either.

The weather barely warmed with the rising sun and Oona knew she’d need to use some of her dwindling ‘emergency’ money to buy more coal.

Seven nights for seven hundred pounds—that would be enough money to last for years.

Those were the words that marched relentlessly through her head after she carefully removed all her finery and extra clothing and then shrugged into her old, tattered coat, hat, and mittens, and set out on her errand.

Her eyes watered from the cold, the tears freezing on her lashes, as she walked beneath the iron gray sky, her empty coal scuttle banging against her leg with each step.

As cold as it was, the walk was good for her. Sitting at home in the tiny, freezing, dingy flat only made her mind spin faster. She could have asked the landlady to send up coal but the cost was almost double that of the old man who sold it from his wheelbarrow at the end of Petticoat Alley.

Seven nights for Katie’s security, she thought as she handed over the small scuttle along with a sizeable portion of her coins.

More people were already up and about on the journey back to her flat; it was a working day in her neighborhood—for everyone but Oona.

Seven nights would secure a small cottage somewhere far away from dirty, dangerous, brutal London.

Back in her lodgings Oona fed the hungry stove and set about preparing her usual breakfast.

Today was day three on her tea leaves, an economy measure she’d practiced ever since moving to London, but when she looked at yesterday’s limp, frozen leaves in the bottom of her pot she decided to splurge. Why not? Tomorrow would have been shopping day—if she’d not lost her job—and there was barely enough tea left to brew a pot. Live for today.

Fifteen minutes later, armed with tea and dry toast, she bundled up and sat in front of her pallet, staring at the beautiful garments while she warmed her hands around her chipped teacup.

In addition to the beautiful fur-lined cloak, muffler, and gorgeous black felt and fur hat, there were two traveling costumes, two nightgowns, and numerous underthings. Most important were the brand new black ankle boots that sat swathed in tissue inside their own box.

Oona looked down at her own battered footwear, which she’d repaired so often they looked like shoes made from patches. Her eyes drifted back to the shiny new ankle boots and she groaned. It was all so beautiful. But was that all it took to purchase her? Some beautiful garments?

And seven hundred pounds—which means when you are finished with this week you can go to Katie and stay with her. You’ll be able to be with her at Christmas for the first time in three years.

Yes, all of that was true.

And of course you’ll also get seven nights with him, the small voice added gleefully.

The teacup shook badly in her hands. All night long she’d tried to ignore the heavy throbbing that pulsed between her thighs at the mere thought of spending seven days with him. She’d hoped it would be easier to manage her desires in the cold light of day, but it turned out she burned for him no matter what time of day or night. The sorry truth was that the thought of seven days and nights with him was every bit as enticing as the money and beautiful clothing.

Oona had forgotten many things in the almost three decades she’d been alive, but one of the things she’d not forgotten was the sight of Justin Taylor’s mostly nude, muscular body thrusting into one of the female servants who’d swarmed him like bees to a hive.

She’d meant what she’d said in the carriage—none of the viscount’s servants had liked her. It hadn’t been just their natural suspicion of a governess—a woman who was neither fish nor fowl—it had been Oona in particular.

Most of their standoffishness, she now knew, had been her fault. She’d just turned seventeen and had been concerned about establishing her authority in the viscount’s household so she’d assumed haughty, cool manners that were not her own. Rather than gaining her respect, her behavior had made her unpopular.

Juss, on the other hand, had easily been the most popular of the thirty or so servants; men respected him and women adored him, and he seemed to fit in wherever he was. Even the viscount’s haughty butler had deferred to him, although he’d been a mere groom.

Of course Juss Taylor could never be a mere anything.

He’d looked as comfortable in the modiste shop today—this one owned by a real Frenchwoman—as he’d always been in the masculine confines of the stables.

Madam Thérèse and her clerks had fluttered around him like a host of butterflies around a particularly tasty flower. He’d lounged in the big armchair, which the wily dressmaker kept especially for her male guests, his big body clothed as elegantly as any peer’s.

Not that you would mistake him for a member of the aristocracy. Not only was he too big—too muscular and powerfully built—but he brimmed with an energy that was the antithesis of the languid aristocrat. Even before he opened those full, sensual lips and spoke in that oddly rough accent a person knew there was nothing effete about Justin Taylor.

Oona poured the last of the tea from the pot, her mind going back to the day she’d stumbled upon Juss and his mystery lover. She’d been a maiden, an innocent seventeen year-old who’d had no idea what her body’s fierce reaction had meant. The night after she’d seen them in the linen closet she had touched herself for the first time, the result both explosive and mortifying and, ultimately, something she wanted more of. So when Edward came to her bedroom not long after Juss had been discharged Oona had allowed him in. It had been madness to believe what he’d told her: that he’d grown to love her and would marry her once his mourning period was finished. But she’d been so lonely and young and he’d been handsome and so very persuasive.

Over the years she’d wondered what Edward would have done if she’d turned him away? Although his approach had been light and lover-like, she now suspected she would have been looking for a new position sooner rather than later if she’d denied him entry to her bed.

As usual, thinking about Edward left her feeling gnawed on and hollow.

So Oona pushed Viscount Venable from her mind. Instead, she turned her attention to the beautiful garments that lay on the bed, and to the man who’d bought them for her.