by Cheryl Holt
“I am her only male relative, and I have to protect her.”
“Is this where you solicit money from me?” Luke shook his head with disgust. “I’ve been wondering if you two had a scheme brewing.”
“Libby wouldn’t pursue dishonorable conduct, but I would.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“You’d like her to be your mistress, yes?”
“Well . . . yes. I would like that, and I’ve already suggested it.”
“I’m betting she was vehemently opposed to the idea.”
“Yes, she was.”
“I could change her mind.” Falcon sounded as if he was boasting.
“How?”
“We’re close, and she heeds my advice. I could convince her.”
“I doubt it.”
“I could have Fish work on her too. We could claim that an affair with you is exactly what she needs to truly be happy.”
Luke studied him keenly, his skepticism intense. “What would you get out of it? I’m certain you don’t have a benevolent bone in your body. There must be something you’d want in return.”
“I agree that you’d have to make it worth my while, but I haven’t decided on what my price might be. How about if I reflect on it for a few days? Once the party ends, we’ll come to terms.”
Luke snorted with annoyance. “I don’t trust you, Falcon, and I have no desire to come to terms with you about Libby or any other subject.”
The arrogant oaf grinned. “If you don’t enlist my help, how will you win her?”
“It’s entirely possible that you have overstated my level of fascination. Perhaps I’m not as desperate as you imagine.”
“Aren’t you?” Falcon laughed, then strolled out.
Luke downed the rest of his liquor, feeling dazed and bewildered.
What was he doing? What was he thinking?
He was as British as the next man, and he understood that blood dictated character. The bluer the blood, the more stellar the character. What were Libby’s antecedents? She refused to confess them, but she’d been raised by her Uncle Harry who’d imprinted his own dubious traits.
It was obvious she was a bad risk. He only had to consider Mr. Falcon to realize it, so why tumble into an affair with her? Why squander a single farthing on her? There were such dangers involved in a risqué liaison. Why imperil himself and his reputation?
But what if he was mistaken and it all worked out perfectly? What if Falcon could persuade her to give Luke what he sought? Why not shoot for that outcome? Why not plan on it?
What if he could spend years with Libby Carstairs snuggled by his side? What sort of person would he be when she was through with him?
A much better one; he was sure of it.
In the meantime, he had a probable fiancée in the front parlor whom he had to assess and charm. He poured another brandy and drank it down, requiring some liquid courage in order to face Penny and her father, but needing it too in order to face Libby when he bumped into her in the crowd of guests.
Simon Falcon would be hovering too, observing Luke and snickering gleefully in the corners. He’d be aware that Luke was in abject misery—with Libby so close, yet so far away.
It was going to be a very long night.
“I wasn’t impressed.”
“Why not?”
“It was too melodramatic for me.”
Charles frowned at Millicent. They were in the front parlor, the festivities winding down. The younger people would likely revel until dawn, but he was exhausted and had had all the socializing he could stand for one evening.
“I found her to be incredibly mesmerizing,” Charles said.
“I didn’t,” Millicent countered. They were discussing Libby Carstairs’s monologue, presented a few hours earlier. Millicent leaned nearer and murmured, “Penny is quite taken with her. You might chat with her about it. I would warn her to be more circumspect, but it would only incense her. You know how mulish she can be these days.”
“Is she being mulish? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Since she’s about to become betrothed, she deems herself to be an adult. She no longer feels she should have to listen to me.”
Penny had never felt much of an inclination to listen to Millicent. It was hardly a new phenomenon, but he didn’t mention that fact. It was an old argument over which they’d regularly squabbled.
“There’s no harm in her being friendly with Miss Carstairs,” he said. “She’s a celebrity. Why shouldn’t Penny have a chance to gush and fawn?”
Millicent’s lips were tight with disapproval. “Miss Carstairs is an actress or have you conveniently forgotten that pesky detail?”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“I would think—with your history—you’d be a tad more concerned about the influence such a disreputable charlatan can exert on a gullible girl like Penny.”
He breathed out a heavy sigh. “Let it go, Millicent. As far as I’ve observed, Miss Carstairs has exhibited the highest moral character while she’s been in residence. She performed for us—once—at Penny’s specific request, and her story was very moving.”
“You can’t have been tricked into believing her drivel. I’m not convinced she’s one of those lost girls. It’s been two decades since they were rescued. Who can be certain? She’s probably an imposter, and her pathetic narratives are a charade to captivate audiences. How can we guess if any of her ridiculous tales are true? I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that she made the whole thing up.”
“I thought it was enormously stirring.”
“You would.”
Miss Carstairs’s cousin, Mr. Falcon, sauntered by. Penny was walking with him, grinning at him in a flirtatious way. A slew of females tagged after them, all of them gazing at him with stars in their eyes. Obviously, Penny wasn’t the only one who was enthralled by the boy’s handsome looks and showy demeanor.
Penny was eighteen, and Charles had been that same age when he’d traipsed off to London and had landed himself in so much trouble. He’d swiftly stumbled into the decadence of gambling, vice, and debauched opera dancers, and he’d had no parents around to urge caution.
Penny was much more immature than he’d been back then. It was difficult to accept that she was old enough to engage in the antics that had once tantalized him so completely.
For a moment, he struggled to remember that passionate interlude, where every facet of his life had been so vital, but all of it seemed so bizarre now, as if it had happened in a dream or perhaps that it had happened to some other unfortunate dolt.
“That Mr. Falcon is a piece of work, isn’t he?” Millicent sounded as if she was fuming.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s so . . . so . . . attractive.” She spat the word attractive as if it were an epithet. “The female guests are falling all over themselves, trying to get him to notice them.”
“Is that type of conduct forbidden these days? I didn’t realize it was a crime to be young and good looking.”
“You’re aware, better than anyone, that flash and dazzle can lead an unsuspecting person to ruin. I’m stunned that you’re not more worried about him. If it was up to me, I’d quietly ask him to pack his bags and return to London.”
“It’s Penny’s party, Millicent,” he said. “She’s happy to have him here, just as she’s happy with Miss Carstairs. They’ll depart soon, and we’ll never see them again. You shouldn’t fret over it, and it’s absurd to be so riled.”
“Don’t tell me I’m over-reacting!” she curtly retorted, proving his point.
“I didn’t say that.” Charles never argued, and he especially wouldn’t argue with her. “I merely think we’re both tired, and I’m about to head to my bed.”
“Yes, by all means, go to bed. Abandon me to play the chaperone by mysel
f.”
“There are plenty of other people to serve that role, and no one in this crowd needs a nanny. You’re even more fatigued than I am—and a bit grouchy. You should head upstairs too.”
“Grouchy!” she huffed.
“Yes, grouchy, and it’s silly for you to tarry. Don’t be a martyr. Besides, with how you’re glowering, you’ll spoil the fun.”
“It’s evident you don’t appreciate all I do for you.”
“I appreciate it, but I’m worn out, and it’s too late to bicker. Even if it wasn’t late, I wouldn’t quarrel with you. As you know, I never quarrel over any issue, so why are you picking a fight with me?”
Unable to conceal his irritation, he glared at her, and she instantly smoothed her features, her fit of pique neatly tucked away.
“Maybe I am grouchy.” It was her attempt at waving an olive branch. “It’s been a long day, and it’s stressful to entertain so many guests.”
“Yes, it is, and you don’t have to dawdle in this parlor. In fact, I would suggest you don’t. Goodnight.”
He hurried away, not inclined to let her waylay him further. She constantly reminded him of how lucky he was that she’d come to Roland after Florence died, and he couldn’t figure out what was bothering her. She was always so eager to be sure he was content, but occasionally, he wondered how she was faring.
She’d hitched her star to his wagon when she was much too young to decide on that path, and she’d never left Roland, so she’d passed up any opportunity she might have had to marry and have a home of her own. Over the years, he’d frequently encouraged her to move on and build a life for herself that was separate from him, but she ceaselessly claimed that she’d rather remain at Roland.
Now she was a very aged thirty-five, so she was a confirmed spinster. Her wastrel brother had emptied the family’s coffers, so even if she hadn’t been quite so old, she didn’t have a dowry. Was she starting to grasp that it had been a bad choice to stay at Roland? Was she wishing she hadn’t stayed?
He recalled Fish’s comment that Millicent was in love with him. The prospect hadn’t previously occurred to him. After Florence’s demise, he’d been very clear with everyone that he never planned to wed again. Two wives had been more than enough.
Had Millicent persuaded herself that he wasn’t serious? Had she assumed she could win him anyway, despite his reluctance?
Perhaps he should begin nudging Millicent to consider a new direction for herself. With Warwick in the army, and Penny about to be a wife and leave too, he didn’t need Millicent hovering. Had that situation already dawned on her? Was it fueling her surly mood?
He reached his bedchamber and was met by his valet, but he sent the man off to join the servants’ party down in the kitchen. He changed his own clothes, donning a comfortable shirt and trousers. Then he poured himself a whiskey and went over to stare out the window, but it was cloudy, so there wasn’t much to see.
It was very quiet, and for once, he was lonely and chafing over how small his world had grown. The realization surprised him. He wasn’t keen on self-assessment. His antics as a young man had proved that he had an unrestrained side to his personality. He’d learned to ignore it until, gradually, it had vanished.
But the fascinating Miss Carstairs, with her poignant performance, had ignited a fire of emotion in his breast. He was reminiscing over squandered possibilities. Her cousin, Mr. Falcon, was spurring him to recollect what it had been like to be rich and wickedly handsome and brazenly prancing about in London.
After that interval had collapsed in scandal, he’d forced himself to become stodgy and boring, but he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t feeble or decrepit. He was only forty-six, and it had been so bloody long since he’d truly enjoyed himself. The house was filled to the rafters with people who were making merry. Why shouldn’t he be one of them?
He downed his whiskey, then poured himself another and downed it too. He spent a few more minutes staring outside, and he knew what was bothering him: Edwina Fishburn was bothering him. And she was right down the hall. She was like a thorn he couldn’t pluck out.
The first evening after she’d arrived, he’d tried to convince her to walk in the garden with him. It had been a huge blow to his ego to have her decline. He’d avoided her ever since, but why had he?
The manor was his castle, and he was king of it. Why not approach her again?
He’d been suffocating at Roland for two decades, but he hadn’t forgotten how to tempt a lady to misbehave. A gentleman never really lost that sort of skill, and his had merely been hidden out of sight. It was time to pull it out and let it fly free.
Poor Fish didn’t stand a chance.
When the door from the hall opened, Fish was loafing in a chair, drinking a brandy, and gazing out at the cloudy sky. A fresh breeze was wafting in, and she could smell rain in the air. She was ready for bed, attired in just her nightgown, her hair down and brushed out.
She hadn’t been given a fancy suite like Libby, so she didn’t have a sitting or dressing room. Her bedroom was tiny and modest, the type offered to an unwelcome guest in the hopes that it would encourage a short stay.
“Hello, Fish,” Charles said from behind her.
She sighed and glanced over her shoulder. “Hello, Charles. Hurry and close the door, would you? I don’t suppose you ought to be observed sneaking into my bedchamber.”
“No, I shouldn’t.”
When Simon had initially mentioned the invitation to Roland, she’d figured Charles wouldn’t even remember her, so it would be safe to visit. But apparently, they had unfinished business to resolve. Where would it lead? How would it end?
She couldn’t imagine, but they had to deal with their old issues, or she’d always regret it.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“What do you think I’m doing?”
“I have no idea, but you were always a fool. I’m sure you’ve concocted a totally ridiculous excuse to explain yourself.”
He grinned. “Maybe.”
That grin still had the power to knock her sideways. Where he was concerned, she’d never been able to keep a level head. One would presume, after twenty odd years as an adult, she’d start making more sensible choices, but perhaps—in light of how she viewed the world—that wasn’t possible.
She was at Roland, and he was at Roland, and she’d be in residence for a quick sojourn. Why not enjoy a bit more entertainment than she’d originally planned?
She stood and walked over to him. She held out her glass of brandy. He grabbed it and downed the contents.
“After you first arrived,” he said, “I invited you to walk in the garden with me, but you refused.”
“I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to decide I had no right to disobey your grand self.”
“You will be in my home for a fortnight.”
“Probably.”
He scowled. “Why probably?”
“I mean Libby has other irons in the fire, and I go where she goes.”
The sole hot iron for Libby was her brewing affair with Lord Barrett. The man was absolutely obsessed, to the point where he was willing to ruin his future just to have her.
The reckless pair would eventually be caught, then a huge brouhaha would erupt. Fish, Simon, and Libby would most likely have to slither away in the dark of night. Lord Barrett would have completely disgraced himself, while also managing to destroy his cordial relationship with Charles.
Fish would watch it all unravel, praying the bricks in Lord Barrett’s wall of chaos didn’t pummel her as they fell.
“You’re not leaving Roland before the party ends,” Charles said.
Fish tsked with annoyance. “You are just as bossy as you were twenty years ago.”
“And you, dear Fish, are just as stubborn. It’s silly to argue with me on any topic. Haven’t you l
earned that by now?”
“You haven’t seen me in two decades. Why would you automatically assume I’ll succumb to your dubious charms?”
“I assume it because you could never resist me.”
“I repeat,” she said, “you are bossy as ever.”
“I’m older and much less patient. These days, I reach out and seize what I want.”
She rolled her eyes. “You always acted that way. Don’t pretend your haughty character is a new development.”
“It’s not new, but it’s been tamped down forever, and it appears you’ve lit a fire under it.”
He stepped in and wrapped an arm around her waist. Suddenly, her entire front was pressed to his, and he’d definitely aged well. He was tall and fit as ever, his shoulders wide, his legs long and lean, so he towered over her. She gazed up at him, and the Devil must have been sitting on her shoulder and urging her to perdition.
Why not? a strident voice was whispering in her ear. Why not trifle with him? He was offering. Why decline such a delicious invitation?
She wasn’t a green girl who had to mind her manners and keep her legs tightly crossed. She was an independent, modern spinster who could behave however she pleased, and he was correct that she couldn’t resist him.
She’d warned herself to avoid him while she was at Roland. The broken heart she’d suffered in the past had been too grueling, so she’d spent the intervening years allied with scoundrels who hadn’t deserved her regard. She’d ceased being imprudent and gullible.
Men weren’t a mystery to her, and she was never surprised by any conduct they perpetrated. Yes, she could dabble with Charles Pendleton, then waltz away unscathed when they parted. She was certain of it.
“It’s your lucky day, Charles,” she said.
He smirked. “Oh, really? And why is that?”
“I’ve decided to give you a chance to make me like you again.”
“You always liked me, Fish. In fact, if I recall, you were once madly in love with me.”
“I might have been,” she blithely said.
