Page 43 of When We Touch

“Are you standing up for him?”

“Quite so.”

Cecilia smiled wickedly. “Are you having some form of a wonderful party for Lord Charles this evening? I was just trying to convince Maggie that she should allow me to take her out for a last evening as a single lady. Well, she’s widowed, but the point is really, before she’s married again.”

“Don’t tell me Lady Maggie is hesitating?” Jamie said, staring at her.

“She’s being no fun at all,” Cecilia pouted.

“Ah, well, neither is my uncle. He is heading off to bed at an early hour, anxious for the morning to come, the day of his wedding.”

“Is he really?” Cecilia said, her eyes sparkling. “Well, then, Sir James, perhaps we could convince you to join the two of us!”

“Cecilia, I haven’t agreed that I’m going anywhere,” Maggie said uncomfortably. She was also tremendously uncomfortable with the way that Cecilia was looking at Jamie. A bolt of something shot through her, and she was disturbed to realize that it was jealousy.

“What did you have in mind?” Jamie asked Cecilia.

“I would never dream of being rude to Sir James, but if he accompanies us, it would hardly be a night out for the ladies,” Maggie said.

“Alas, true,” Cecilia said. She stared at Jamie with a smile that was so blatant that, even given the conversation they’d just had, Maggie was shocked. “But, of course, with my dear friend Maggie marrying into the family, I’m sure we can meet again, Sir James.”

“Yes, definitely,” Jamie said, bemused. “I am acquainted with your husband, my lady, which makes it all the more pleasant to make your reacquaintance.”

Cecilia’s smile deepened. Maggie wanted to hit someone.

She stood. “Cecilia, if we’re to be out and about this evening, I believe I’ll head home so that I might be properly dressed for the occasion.”

“Fine.” Cecilia didn’t even look at her. She was still staring at Jamie. “My coachman will call for you at . . . eight, say?”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t go out this evening.”

She was startled by Jamie’s words.

“Harmless play,” Cecilia said.

“Ah, but tomorrow will be such an event in Lady Maggie’s life,” Jamie pointed out.

“All the more reason I should go out tonight,” Maggie said. She really would have preferred to spend her last evening at home instead of an evening out with Cecilia, but the very fact that he suggested that she not go, made her determined that she would.

And all the more because of the way he and Cecilia were staring at one another. The conversation going on between their eyes was almost audible. Cecilia, so blatantly saying that she was married to a man who cheerfully gave her total freedom, Jamie musing that entertainment was all he really sought at the moment, the two of them thinking that together they both made prime candidates for a night of simple sex and pleasure.

“Well, I shall see you both at a later time, then,” Maggie said.

As she departed, the two were still staring at one another.

* * *

Arianna paced her room.

She adored her father so much. How could he be doing this thing? It was all so silly, almost embarrassing. And it was deplorable that even her father could be such a fool—whatever was he thinking?

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go to the wedding, and she certainly couldn’t live with that woman!

Definitely, she was evil. One look at her had assured Arianna that she was evil. And she hadn’t been in the least placating! She was too tall, too regal in her bearing, far too assured, and far too willing for this wedding for there not to be something terribly wrong.

That was it, certainly. Her family was down on its luck. No great surprise. And still . . . there had to be something. Something about the woman, something in her past. Arianna hadn’t met her friend Mireau yet—a man her father talked about with amusement and pride—but there was something not quite right about him, either. He was probably Lady Maggie’s lover, and her father was simply too besotted or too naive to see such a thing.

She sat at her dressing table and stared at her own reflection. They said that she looked like her mother. She barely remembered her own mother, and therefore, it was hard to know if people were right. She loved to imagine her mother, though—she had been the daughter of a Welshman knighted in India. Then, too, it was said, her father had thrown caution to the wind and married almost immediately upon meeting her. She had died of consumption, many years ago. But Arianna had seen paintings, and they had been beautiful.