Page 91 of A Season for Scandal

I fidgeted in my seat. “I have obligations,” I said finally. “To my family. And” – I lifted my eyes to hers – “to you.”

“I see. Well, I cannot speak for your obligations to your family, but as far as your commitment to the Aviary, I do not see why that must be any great impediment.”

“You don’t?” I managed.

Mrs Finch considered me. “No, I do not. First of all, none of the women who work for us areobligedto do so. They choose it.”

“But I want to do it,” I said desperately. “Iwantto choose it – that is precisely part of the problem.”

Mrs Finch only smiled. “Well, in that case, the Aviary has agents all over the country – soon to be all over the world if Sylla has anything to say on the matter. Unfortunately, women in need are not neatly confined to the borders of London, however much we may be tempted to view the metropolis as the centre of the world.”

“No,” I said slowly. “I suppose not. It sounds silly, but I have only recently really thought about just how limited my experience of the world has been. The Aviary has opened my eyes to a lot of things.”

“I find that to be a great compliment, Marigold,” Mrs Finch said with a pleased smile. We lapsed into a thoughtful silence. On the pool in front of us a handful of little red toy sailing boats drifted by.

“I had an interesting conversation with Oliver the other day,” she said, breaking the quiet. “About Lockhart Hall.”

“Oh?”

Her tone was innocent, but I knew her better now, knew what her face looked like when she was scheming. And shedefinitelyhad a scheming face now.

“Yes,” she continued, smooth as glass. “It seems that in recent weeks he has been giving a good deal of thought to the legacy he has been left with. He believes that there is a chance Lockhart Hall could be – how did he put it? –something better than the story of its past.”

I started at the repetition of my own words. Mrs Finch pressed her lips together as if to hide a smile.

“He wants to turn Lockhart Hall into a retreat,” she carried on. “For women who need … sanctuary.”

I stilled. “A retreat?”

Mrs Finch nodded. “We have several already, though nothing like the size of Lockhart Hall. It is perfect, of course – so out of the way and secluded. And the place is literally a fortress, so it should inspire a feeling of safety in those who need it most. I have to say I am delighted with the plan.”

So was I. It was perfect. It was the perfect way to use Lockhart Hall; it was the perfect way for Oliver to honour his mother. It was the perfect way to bring that house back to life. It could be warm, I knew. I had seen it. It could be warm and safe and welcoming.

“Of course, we would probably need someone there who worked for the Aviary to run things. One could hardly leave taking care of people up to Oliver.” Mrs Finch smiled fondly. “Anyway…” She got to her feet and dusted herself off. “Just something to think about.”

And on that earth-shattering note, she left me alone.

It was a couple of hours later that there was a knock on my door. I knew it would be Oliver, and I hadn’t decided if I was prepared for that or not. I had sat in the park for a long time, turning over Mrs Finch’s words. Funny, I thought, how all this had started in a different park six months ago, how wildly different my life was now.

When he strode into the room, he was more subdued than usual. I felt that same nervous energy coming off him, and for some strange reason that helped me to feel calmer. Perhaps it was because I realized I wasn’t in this alone.

He looked much better than the last time I saw him. His colour had returned and, though he looked tired, he had also clearly taken the opportunity to tidy himself up. His hair was brushed back neatly, his face cleanly shaven, his suit impeccable. I felt touched by it, even as I knew that I liked him best when he was rumpled and untidy.

He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. “Bloom,” he began gruffly.

And that was all it took. Every objection flew out of my head as I saw him standing there, looking at me with his heart in his eyes.

I crashed into him, pulling his head down until my lips met his. He made a small noise of surprise, and then his arm looped round my waist, pulling me tightly against him. He kissed me as though I was something rare and lovely. He kissed me as though he loved me and wanted me, and would never, never get enough.

And I kissed him back, poured my own feelings into every soft touch of my mouth, into the way I gripped the lapels of his jacket, pressing into him almost desperately.

It was a warm, breathless dream of a kiss, and when we finally broke apart, I looked up at him. Dazzled.

Fortunately, he looked equally affected. His hand moved, almost nervously to his tie. I was pleased to see that his hair was thoroughly rumpled, and that his well-kissed lips and lust-blown pupils all contributed to a very delicious, decidedly discomposed picture.

“I am in love with you too,” I said.

He blinked. “I think I need to sit down,” he replied, his voice rough as sandpaper.