She wouldn’t make her sisters give up theirs. They had few niceties in life and she wouldn’t let her pride stop them from enjoying the gifts. As she left the shop, a blast of frigid air struck her face. For a fleeting instant, she wanted to turn and rush back into the shop, where Grayson’s coal burned brightly in her fireplace grate. Strengthening her resolve, she plodded onward. She had difficulty hailing a hackney in the snow-packed lane and was forced to walk three blocks to Bond Street before finding a vacant cab. With shoes soaked through, her feet and hands numb, she was grudgingly grateful for the warmth of the cloak. This time when she knocked on the front door of the earl’s Mayfair mansion, the stern-faced butler recognized her. “Mrs. Somerton to see Lord Huntingdon,” she said. The servant arched a knowing brow. “Is he expecting to conduct business with you again?”
