Page 48 of Souvenir of Love

“Close enough. Though I also recall you refused to apologize for touching my sister.”

“An apology you will never have.”

“Just as you will never have her.”

“You’ve made that abundantly clear, Moreham.”

“So is it a heroic gesture you think to make, some form of redemption that you seek in France?”

Elizabeth pressed her ear so tightly against the wall it began to throb.

“Redemption?” James laughed, a bitter sound. “For a man such as I? I merely seek…”

“Elizabeth?”

Whatever it was James hoped to find in France, Elizabeth was unable to discover. The lilting voice of her sister-in-law interrupted her eavesdropping. “Are you in here?”

A string of curses she’d heard from a groom after a carthorse stepped on his foot sprang to mind. Quickly she shoved the pile of erotic poetry into the space where her head had been and hastily snatched up a copy ofCaesar’s Gallic Warsfrom a lower shelf. Opening it on her lap to a random page, she called, “I’m here. Just searching for something amusing to read.”

Alix peered anxiously around the shelves. “Have you seen Roland? Apparently, he has escaped from the kitchen. I thought I might find him here. He seems to have a penchant for the library.”

“That pug has apenchantfor anything he can chew,” Elizabeth said, descending the ladder. “I do not understand why you didn’t leave him in London with your mother.”

Alix laughed. “Madeleine cannot tolerate dogs, but Roland, he was a gift from Lord Rothwell.”

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “The widower with all the children?”

She nodded. “Mymamanbelieves that if she returns the dog, Lord Rothwell will think she is not maternal enough to marry.”

“But your mother…” Elizabeth paused, not wishing to damage the relationship so carefully mended since the duel, yet finding it difficult to picture Alix’s flamboyant mother surrounded by children. “She is not exactly what one thinks of as maternal.”

“No, she is not. But then she has not had much practice, living apart from my father and me for so many years. She has a good heart, my mother, and she is very fond of Lord Rothwell.” Alix’s gray eyes grew thoughtful. “Our impressions of people, so often they are based on how they look or how they dress…on a facade.”

“But most people, at least those amongst the ton, spend a tremendous amount of time and money creating just the right appearance. Isn’t it appropriate, then, that we should judge them on it?”

“Ahhh,” said Alix. “Always remember that facades, like sleights of hand, are not merely about what a person wishes you to see, but also about what they hope to conceal.” She smiled brightly. “Now then, shall we go and see if we can’t find that rascal Roland?”

Seventeen

Alix’s search for the pug was leading them farther and farther away from Rafe’s study. Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed as she watched her sister-in-law peering under the chaise in the music room; she felt fairly certain Roland wasn’t anywhere near the salmon and gold brocade sofa. “No sign of him here,” Alix said, straightening slowly, hand on her growing belly. “Perhaps he’s gone upstairs.” Elizabeth had seen the pug try to climb stairs; it was a major effort for his little brown legs, and he usually settled on the fourth or fifth step, waiting to be carried the rest of the way.

She suspected her sister-in-law had been instructed to keep her away from the study—from James.

Did Rafe and Alix think she would be devastated by the sight of him? Or did they imagine she would make a fool of herself by flinging herself into his arms? Sweeping aside a brocade curtain as if she thought the dog might be there, she wondered, how would they react if they discovered she and James had already met? She hadn’t been devastated and she certainly hadn’t thrown herself into his arms. Though she had to admit she’d made something of a fool of herself, plummeting to the ground like that. She bit her lower lip, remembering how he’d smiled ather and pulled her to her feet. All that she’d heard had set her thoughts and emotions spinning. James Dinsmore was staying at the Hart and Hounds for the next three days, but by week’s end he’d be on his way to France.

She had less than two days to decide what she should do.

The well-fed figureof Sir Edmund Bogglesworth was spilling over the edges of her Louis XIV armchair. From the sheen of his superfine wool jacket, Anne guessed the garment must have cost a pretty penny. Though rumor had it, Sir Edmund, an obscure country squire only recently come to town, had plenty to spare. She smoothed the skirt of the dress she’d reconfigured yet again, folding her hands in her lap, forcing herself to follow his conversation.

“You may not believe this to look at me,” he said, nodding his several chins, “but I was a sickly child. Yes, a sickly child. It’s a wonder I made it out of infancy. It was the milk, you see, couldn’t bear the milk. Must have gone through every available breast in the village near my country estate, Hamcroft. That’s up north.” He nodded as if she should know and she nodded back in response. Thus encouraged, he continued.

She admired the stitching on his waistcoat and the fine silver buttons. It would have looked handsome on James. Her eyes drifted to a chair by the tea table. Her brother should have occupied it, but instead her cousin Agatha Leech sat there, her new chaperone. Half deaf and three-quarters blind, Agatha leaned toward Sir Edmund as if he were recounting the most fascinating of adventures.

“I had faded away to nothing, no bigger than a rabbit, I’m told. My own mother had given me up for dead when this old midwife from the village near Hamcroft says she can save me. Fed me scotch and sugar from her little finger, drop by drop, canyou imagine?” He shook his chins at the wonder, and as if she understood, Agatha nodded her own chin, the one with the two gray hairs that Anne longed to reach over and pluck.

“More tea, Sir Edmund?” She lifted the china pot, hoping the offer of beverages would stem the tide of his talk.

Edmund waved the pot away, the massive gold rings on his plump fingers glittering with the gesture. But Agatha held out a shaking cup. Anne filled it, praying that she wouldn’t spill the expensive oolong tea on the carpet. The cup found its way safely to Agatha’s lips and she gave a contented slurp.