She was a very aged twenty-five, and she’d nearly left him a thousand times, but she never had. He’d been her family. He’d replaced the father she’d believed lost in the shipwreck, had filled the role of kin she’d been anxious to have. He’d understood humans, and it was why he’d been able to trick, plunder, and swindle with such relish.
He’d understood her too, had understood her yearning to belong, to be accepted and wanted. He’d supplied just enough attention and flattery to keep her by his side, and now—now!—when the pathetic idiot had gotten himself shot dead by a jealous husband, she was devastated.
How could he abandon her?
Her mother had been his acquaintance, a fact he’d hidden—due to Libby’s past supposedly being a mystery—and he’d slyly recognized profitable traits in Libby. He’d tutored her in how to be magnificent, then he’d pushed her out into the world where she’d become irresistible.
She reveled in the applause and fame—she couldn’t deny it—but when Harry wasn’t there to revel in it too, it all seemed pointless.
Grief was a heavy load to carry, and she would eventually shuck it off, but with his only being deceased for three months, she was still mourning and having trouble balancing the load he’d dumped on her slender shoulders.
Suddenly, she smelled smoke from a cheroot, and she glanced down the dock, irked to see a man standing there. He was being so quiet that she hadn’t noticed him.
He was thirty or so, casually leaned against the wooden railing and watching her intently, as if debating whether to make his presence known.
“Hello,” she said. “Are you having a private moment? I hope I haven’t interrupted.”
“You haven’t interrupted.”
His voice was a deep, soothing baritone that tickled her innards, and she tamped down a scoff of exasperation. Men never enticed her in a feminine fashion. She was much too smart to ever be bowled over.
Because she worked in the theater, she was constantly surrounded by scoundrels. They doted on her and plied her with gifts, but she was never interested in any of them in a romantic way. They couldn’t tempt her. They couldn’t woo her.
She’d witnessed too much of their bad behavior. Harry’s wealthy friends had all been married, but they’d had mistresses and second families. They’d gambled, cheated on their wives, and squandered their fortunes on vice and debauchery.
She’d never met an affluent fellow who wasn’t an absolute beast in his personal habits. Harry had taught her how to finagle and tease so they would shower her with presents, but also how to put her foot down too to prevent any mischief from occurring.
Her aloof attitude merely drove her admirers to paroxysms of purpose, where they swore they would soften her heart and win her for their very own—by which they meant they expected she’d agree to be a mistress. She’d never be considered as a wife, a situation that should have been insulting, but she didn’t exactly view matrimony as an attractive choice.
She would never enter into a relationship where a husband would have the right to boss her or fritter away her hard-earned money. She was too independent and wasn’t adept at following orders. Any dolt who thought he could control her was sorely mistaken. She never listened, as her poor Uncle Harry had learned over and over.
If she’d deemed it possible—and she didn’t—she’d have been delighted to wed the man of her dreams and live happily ever after, but her past was a weighty ball and chain. There was no chance of Prince Charming riding up to declare himself.
“Would you like me to leave?” she asked him. “I don’t have to tarry.”
“I don’t mind you being here.”
“Thank you. It’s so crowded inside. I can’t bear to return to the party just yet.”
“I feel the same.”
For several minutes, they were silent. He puffed on his cheroot to the very end, then he dropped it into the water, the tip hissing as the flame sizzled out.
“When you first sat down,” he said, “who were you talking to? It sounded as if you were scolding someone.”
“It was my uncle. He passed away a few months ago, in a very stupid manner, and in case he can hear me, I continue to chastise him for being such a fool.”
He was polite enough not to question her about Harry’s demise, and she would have been too embarrassed to explain it, so she was grateful for the courtesy.
“May I join you on the bench?” he asked.
“Of course.”
She patted the empty spot next to her, and he walked over. It was a dark night, but a lantern hung from a nearby post, so there was sufficient light for a clear assessment. He moved with the grace of a dancer or an athlete, looking completely comfortable in his skin.
He was enormously handsome, with black hair and sparking eyes that she predicted would be very blue. He was tall, six feet at least, so if she’d been standing, he’d have towered over her, and she’d always loved a tall man.
She was short, just five-foot-four in her slippers and still very thin. After suffering her ordeal when she was tiny, her frame had never filled out as a normal girl’s might have. She was willowy and exotic, and she wondered if he liked to dance. On the dance floor, they would be a striking couple.
He had a classic aristocratic face—high cheekbones, strong nose, firm chin—and she was curious as to who he was. She’d been in London for weeks, with her cousin, Simon. He was Harry’s bastard son, and he was trolling salons and soirees to drum up a gaggle of devoted swains.
Harry had been a veritable master at keeping her admirers panting after her, at wrangling gifts from them that he would promptly sell.
Simon
