Libby was alone in London, and scoundrels were circling. She was working at another theater where any sort of cretin could slip backstage to accost her. Cads would be tempting her with gifts, jewels, and wicked promises.
Could Luke ignore what was happening? Hadn’t he previously vowed that Libby belonged to him and could never belong to anyone else? Did he still think that? And if he did, what was he prepared to do about it?
Libby meandered backstage, winding around props and crates. She’d finished her performance for the evening and was eager to change her clothes and head home.
The theater had been packed again, with tickets selling like mad. The manager was happy, as were the other actors. The current play wasn’t all that interesting, so the income she was generating would keep them working much longer than they might have otherwise. If she hadn’t been the main attraction, the audience might not have been half as large.
She entered her changing room and sat at the dressing table so she could study herself in the mirror. She was attired in the simple sort of costume she wore when she told stories about her sojourn on the island with Caroline and Joanna, so she could remove it on her own easily enough.
Her street garments would be harder to arrange, and Fish had abandoned her. In Fish’s absence, an actress was supposed to help her, but the woman was occupied until after the show, so she wouldn’t be available for many minutes. Libby wasn’t an invalid though, so she could get started without an assistant. She was just being petulant and didn’t feel she should have to tend herself.
She swallowed her frustration. She understood why Fish had traveled to Roland to renew her doomed affair with Charles. She understood it, but she didn’t like it. She didn’t want Fish involved with him. It would only lead to heartbreak in the end, so it would be much more difficult for Libby to establish a bond with Charles.
She was aggrieved too at the notion of Simon being married to Penny. She hadn’t heard that the reckless pair was back at Roland. She’d asked Fish to send a note once they arrived, but so far, there hadn’t been any message.
She constantly envisioned Fish and Simon loafing at Roland, while Libby was alone in London. Of course she could have accompanied Fish, but she wasn’t ready. She couldn’t deduce how to become Charles’s daughter. So much water had passed under the bridge, and she wasn’t an aristocrat’s child.
In reality, she was Harry Carstairs’s child, a girl he’d molded to earn lots of money so he didn’t have to earn any himself. She’d been good at it, and she’d had an enormous amount of fun being Libby. She enjoyed the freedom and independence Harry had provided, and she couldn’t imagine carrying on any other way.
Charles was planning to publicly claim her, but then what? An earl’s daughter could never be employed in a theater. Would she retire to Roland and dawdle there in quiet isolation until the tedium drove her insane?
Yet she yearned to be part of a family, to be valued and cherished as a member. Shouldn’t she glom onto Charles and figure out the rest later on?
Though it was humiliating to admit, she was terrified to proceed. She—who’d never been afraid of anything—was afraid she might wedge herself into a spot by Charles’s side, but that she’d never fit there.
She had no idea how to be his daughter or Penny’s sister. She’d likely jump in with both feet only to have them acknowledge the mistake they’d made in welcoming her, so she’d tarried in London by herself rather than face her fears. It was stupid and cowardly, but there it was.
The door opened, and for a fleeting instant, she smiled, automatically presuming it would be Fish, but recognition swiftly dawned, and her shoulders slumped. Fish was heedlessly pursuing her ridiculous amour at Roland, and Libby was on her own, but then, hadn’t she always been on her own?
A male voice spoke from behind her, and she blanched, then whirled on the stool to glare at her intruder.
“Well, well,” Luke said, his tone a tad snotty, “if it isn’t Little Libby Carstairs, Mystery Girl of the Caribbean.”
“What are you doing here, Lord Barrett?”
“You’ve begun calling me Lord Barrett instead of Luke. Why is that? Are you pretending we aren’t intimately attached?”
“Yes, I’m pretending exactly that.” She scoffed. “I’m sure it will be a huge blow to your massive ego, but I’m over you.”
“Really? Are you positive?”
“Yes, so you can turn around and head off to entertain yourself however a rude, obnoxious nobleman entertains himself on a Saturday night in London.”
“I’m not here to be entertained. I rode to town specifically to see you.”
“I can’t fathom why you would have, so it was a wasted trip. The last time we chatted, I was very clear as to my opinion about you.” She frowned, feigning confusion. “Where did it occur again? Oh, that’s right. I was in jail because I’d dared to reveal the identity of my father.”
“Why are you so angry with me? When I bailed out your sorry behind, I thought you might be a bit grateful.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I could have sworn you were fond of me.”
“I was fond—in the past—but any affection has vanished. It faded the minute you accused me of lying about my being Charles’s daughter.”
“I was an ass about it, wasn’t I?”
She was still seated on the stool, and there was one chair in the small room. He grabbed it and put it directly in front of her, then he plopped down on it, sitting so close that their legs were tangled together.
He looked magnificent as ever, dressed in formal evening clothes, a black velvet jacket and trousers, a white shirt, a pristine cravat sewn from the finest Belgian lace. The space surrounding him
