He took another kiss, then walked to the door. She followed him and stuck the key in the lock. Then she peered out to be certain no one was strolling down the hall.
“Go,” she mouthed.
“I will—for the moment,” he whispered. “But I’ll be back. I guarantee it.”
He strutted out, not concerned if he was seen. When he reached the stairs, he glanced at her over his shoulder, shooting her a look of such passion and desire she was surprised it didn’t knock her over.
She staggered to the nearest chair and eased into it.
“What now?” she asked the empty room, but the room had no answer.
She would wait for Fish so she could dress in her most stylish gown, then she’d waltz down to socialize with Lady Penny. Luke would be lurking in the corners, watching her, wanting her. She’d be watching and wanting him too. Would they light the house on fire with their strident attraction?
Any terrible detonation seemed likely.
“Fish! There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere.”
Fish braced, then relaxed. She smiled at Charles, her dear Lord Roland. He’d briskly approached, his hands outstretched, as if he’d pull her into a hug, and she shifted to the side, preventing an awkward embrace.
He scowled, but didn’t comment.
She was standing on the verandah, leaned on the balustrade in a shadowed corner where she was mostly invisible. She could stare into the parlors and enjoy the festivities without having to actually be part of them.
She liked to watch the dancers twirl by, liked to watch the men gamble in the card room. She liked to keep an eye on Simon and Libby too, always suffering from the oddest perception that they might vanish if she wasn’t paying attention.
She’d just turned forty, and for much of her life, she’d glommed onto corrupt cads, and thus had been supported by them through their dubious schemes and swindles. Harry Carstairs had been typical. He’d been a handsome scalawag with a felonious heart, and he’d had a sly way of accumulating money from people who shouldn’t have trusted him.
Harry was dead, and it wasn’t likely she’d persuade another rascal to let her attach herself. She’d grown more dependent on Libby and Simon, needing them for financial security, but needing them emotionally too.
They were her family, a mix-mash of disconnected orphans who’d bonded as if they were relatives. If she’d had any maternal tendencies, she’d have viewed them as her children, but she didn’t have them, so perhaps she was more like a cordial aunt or a much older big sister. They would keep her company in her old age, and they were both loyal in their own way, but if she could find another paramour to take Harry’s place, she wouldn’t necessarily complain.
She liked to have a man around, but she liked being a spinster too. She was too independent, too stubborn and impatient. The notion of having a husband was like a tough piece of meat she’d never been inclined to chew.
“Hello, Charles,” she said to him.
“Why are you lurking by yourself in the dark?”
“It was hot and crowded in the house. I was desperate for some fresh air. How about you? What dragged you out?”
“I told you. I’ve been searching for you.”
From the moment he’d recognized her in the driveway, she’d figured he’d want to get her alone so they could talk. At least she’d been hoping he’d want that. It was the main reason she’d been hiding. She hadn’t decided how she felt about bumping into him again.
When Simon had wrangled the invitation to Roland, she hadn’t known what to expect, and she hated to be disappointed. It had been twenty years since she’d last seen Charles, so it hadn’t seemed probable that he’d remember her. Their fling had occurred during a period when they’d been young and stupid and had thought they could break all the rules.
Back then, he’d had a passion for actresses and other loose strumpets. His debacle with his first wife, Amanda, hadn’t cured him of it. Fish had been an actress herself, but without the talent to succeed at center stage. Eventually, she’d been forced to accept a different role, working behind the curtain to design costumes for glamorous vixens like Libby who had the special allure that captivated audiences.
Charles had been scandalously divorced by then and far down the road toward wedding his plain, dour cousin, Florence, as he should have done from the very start. Florence had been the bride initially selected for him by his father, but he’d met Amanda and had eloped with her instead.
By trudging forward with Florence, he’d convinced himself that his raucous proclivities were vanquished and that he could be happy with the small, ordinary existence she would provide. But in the interval Fish had consorted with him, his debauched appetites hadn’t been vanquished in the slightest. He’d been an ardent beau who’d tantalized her with possibilities.
He’d been a wounded soul too, mourning his failed marriage and the loss of his daughter, Little Henrietta. He’d been a tormented man that any woman would have loved to save.
He’d temporarily flirted with the idea of spurning Florence a second time, of running off with Fish, but a friend had yanked him to his senses, which had been the only logical ending.
They’d parted on sweet terms, with him offering her money and jewelry as a goodbye gift. She’d been offended by the gesture and had refused them, but with how her fortunes had plummeted afterward, she shouldn’t have been so proud. She’d been glad they’d dallied, and she’d been glad too over how completely he’d broken her heart.
It had galvanized her opinions about men. She’d come out of it smarter and much less gullible. After him, when she’d jumped into new affairs, she’d picked scoundrels from her same class, oafs like Harry who never surprised her and never made promises.
“What brought you to Roland?” he asked, pulling her
