The Price of Desire. Jo Goodman

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      The things Mason had for her were not precisely her things. Instead of her pelisse, a hunter green cloak was held out to her. The attached hood was trimmed in red fox fur, a color that very nearly matched her own hair. Mason also showed her a red fox muff to replace her worn kid gloves.

      “I can’t accept these,” she said, trying to push them back. “Where are my garments?”

      Mason gave no quarter. “They’re not fit for walking in this weather. You must have noticed that it snowed overnight.” He glanced toward the nearest window. “It’s snowing yet. Lightly, to be sure, but enough that heed must be paid.”

      “I’ve walked in my things many times.”

      “Yes, miss. It looked as if you had.”

      Olivia flushed. She was aware that her garments were gently worn and no longer of the latest fashion, but that Mr. Mason should be moved to comment, however carefully, stung.

      “I meant no offense, Miss Cole. His lordship thought that you—”

      “Pray, do not trouble yourself to explain, Mr. Mason. I will accept them, now that I know their full cost.”

      “I don’t think you under—”

      Olivia turned her back on him, effectively cutting him off. She allowed him to place the cloak on her shoulders, but she fastened the silk frogs herself. The wait by the door seemed interminable as Mason put on his own coat, scarf, and hat.

      The bracing air did not do as much to improve Olivia’s mood as the walk itself. By the time she and Mr. Mason reached the end of Putnam Lane she was regretting her churlish behavior and prepared to apologize for it. While the valet most kindly assured her that no apology was necessary, Olivia made him listen to the whole of it anyway.

      “It must be entirely confessed,” she told him, “else it will always weigh on my mind.”

      When she finished, his grave acceptance brought a smile to her lips. “How is it that you became my escort this morning?” she asked as they crossed Moorhead Street. “The truth, Mr. Mason. I am glad of this opportunity so I will not be put out if you came to it with all the enthusiasm of a young man confronting a press gang.”

      Mason’s prominently rounded chin puckered a bit as he chuckled. “It was with rather more willingness than that. His lordship could not escort you, of course. He has that much concern for your reputation, and he is known by sight in this part of London.”

      Olivia was unsure what that meant precisely, but she was loath to ask for an explanation. Was Mason saying that she would be seen in a poor light if the viscount accompanied her? It was difficult to fathom. He had rank, after all, and much was forgiven because of it. As she tried to work it out she was aware that Mason was continuing his explanation.

      “There was naturally a concern for your safety. Even if there was no question that you would return, he would not have allowed you to walk the streets alone.”

      Olivia freed one hand and lifted it to indicate the street ahead of them and the small park beyond. “It cannot have escaped your notice that there is almost no one about.”

      “It is not a risk worth taking, Miss Cole. There are footpads alert to opportunity at any hour of the day.”

      “And I am worth £1,000.” She looked at him sideways, wondering if she had misspoken. “You were aware of that, weren’t you?”

      “I was. His lordship told me. You needn’t be concerned that it is common knowledge among the staff. It is yet another reason why I was chosen to act as your escort. You will find that Lord Breckenridge values discretion.”

      “I see.” Olivia stepped over a mound of snow that had been pushed street side. Ahead of her an eddy of snow was lifted into the air. “How long have you been in his employ?”

      “He was still in short pants.”

      “Long ago as that?”

      “I was his father’s man then.”

      “His father’s dead?”

      “Almost ten years now.”

      She felt oddly dismayed to hear of it, though why that should be so she couldn’t say. “So young.”

      “For both of them,” Mason said. “One too young to die; the other too young to take the mantle.”

      When Olivia looked askance at Mr. Mason, she saw that he seemed surprised that he’d spoken so openly. She watched him press his lips together and knew there would be little else forthcoming. She ducked her head against the wind while he clamped one hand on his hat and used the other to raise his scarf to the level of his nose. With his mouth so effectively covered, they continued on just as if no words had ever passed between them.