The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

in front of a dignified town house she frowned and searched for the hotel.
    No, she remembered with a jolt. Trevor had said “house,” not “hotel.” The man lived three thousand miles away in New York City and had a house in London.
    Would wonders never cease?
    Composing herself, she took the driver’s hand when he came around to her door.
    “I’ll bring your bags straight in, Miss Gallagher.”
    “Thank you very much.” She crossed over and started up the short set of steps between rigorously formal hedges, hoping she looked as though she knew what she was doing.
    The door opened before she’d worked out whether she should knock or just go inside. A tall, slim man with a fringe of white hair bowed to her. “Miss Gallagher. I hope your trip was pleasant. I’m Stiles, Mr. Magee’s butler. We’re pleased to welcome you.”
    “Thank you.” She started to offer her hand, stopped. That probably wasn’t done, particularly with British butlers.
    “Would you care to see your room, or may we offer you some refreshment?”
    “Ah, I’d like to see my room, if that’s convenient.”
    “Of course. I’ll see to your luggage. Winthrup will show you upstairs.”
    Winthrup moved forward with barely a sound, a wisp of a woman in the same formal black as the butler. Her hair was a colorless ash, quietly styled, her eyes pale as water behind thick lenses.
    “Good morning, Miss Gallagher. If you’ll follow me, I’ll see you settled.”
    Don’t gawk, you idiot . Trying desperately for casual, Darcy crossed the gleaming golden wood of the foyer, walked under the magnificence of the central chandelier, and started up the grandeur of the staircase.
    She couldn’t say it was like a palace. It was too ruthlessly dignified for that. Like a museum, she thought, all polished and hushed and intimidating.
    There was art on the walls, but she didn’t dare take time to study it. The walls themselves must have been papered in silk, so smooth and rich did they appear. She had to curl her fingers to keep them from touching.
    The housekeeper, as she imagined Winthrup was the housekeeper, led the way down a corridor wainscoted in deep, rich wood. Darcy wondered how many rooms there were, how they were furnished, what she would see from the windows. Then Winthrup opened a deeply carved door onto luxury.
    The bed was big as a lake, its four posters spearing toward the deeply coved ceiling. Darcy didn’t know what sort of rugs were spread over the polished floor, but she could tell they were old and magnificent.
    Everything—chest of drawers, bureaus, mirrors, tables—was polished to mirror gleams. Dozens of white roses bloomed out of a crystal vase that she imagined weighed ten pounds if it weighed an ounce.
    Draperies of deep forest green were tied back with gold tassels, framing the glinting glass.
    There was a fireplace fashioned out of white marble veined with rose, and towering candlesticks flanked the mantel. More flowers, lilies this time, in that same blinding white stood in the center.
    A cozy arrangement, plush chairs, polished tables, was set in a way that invited her to settle in.
    “The sitting room is to the right and the master bath to the left.” Winthrup folded her thin hands. “Would you like me to unpack for you now, or would you prefer to rest a bit first?”
    “I . . .” Darcy feared she might swallow her tongue. “Actually, I . . . no, I don’t need to rest, thank you just the same.”
    “I’ll be happy to show you around the house if you like.”
    “Do you think I might just wander about a bit?”
    “Of course. Mr. Magee hopes you’ll make yourself at home here. You’ve only to push nine on the house phone to reach me, and eight to reach Stiles. Perhaps you’d like to freshen up.”
    “I would, thank you very much.” On rubbery legs, Darcy started toward the bath. The hell with it, she thought, turned back. “Miss Winthrup, it’s a lovely room.”
    Winthrup’s smile was as wispy as the rest of her, but it managed to soften her face a little. “Yes, it is.”
    Darcy walked into the bath, deliberately shut her eyes and leaned back on the door. She felt as though she were in a play, or one of her own more creative dreams. But she wasn’t. It was real. She could feel her heart beating in her chest, and little thrills of sheer pleasure dancing over her skin.
    She sighed once, then opened her eyes to simply grin at the bathroom.
    They must’ve taken out another room to make it so large,