Chapter Three
Miss Wrotham made no attempt at conversation. She sat alongside him, gripping her reticule, staring ahead, as if she could make the hackney go faster by sheer force of will. Mordecai had the disconcerting sensation that the clocks had lurched back a year and that now wasn’t now any longer. Miss Wrotham was even wearing an outfit she’d worn during her Season: the ivory-white walking dress with the vandyked hem, the navy blue spencer that matched her eyes, the chip straw bonnet with the blue riband. An outfit that had been elegant last year but looked slightly shabby now.
It felt as if time had turned back, but also as if it hadn’t, because this Miss Wrotham wasn’t quite the young woman he remembered, even though she wore the same dress. This Miss Wrotham had the cool, aloof
