“I go where Libby goes.”
“Are you her . . . mother?”
“No. Just her friend and costumer.”
“You always had an aptitude for fashion.”
“She’s so gorgeous, and I’m lucky that she wears my clothes.”
He snorted at that. “How long have you worked for her?”
“Too long probably, but I like helping her. It suits me.”
She didn’t really work for Libby though. She’d been Harry’s paramour off and on for almost ten years, so she’d lived with them occasionally, but she’d never had any authority over Libby. She’d never supplied anything Libby had truly needed except for the fabulous outfits she sewed.
She didn’t want to talk about any of that though. It would mean discussing her bad choices in life, such as hooking her wagon to a charlatan like Harry Carstairs. After falling for rich, titled, Charles Pendleton, Harry had been quite a step down.
“How have you been?” he absurdly asked.
“I haven’t seen you in twenty years. What portion of that period would you like me to describe?”
“That was a stupid question, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but then, I always deemed you to be very silly.”
“I remember that about you. You were never impressed by me.”
“Well, you rarely displayed behavior that was impressive.”
He laughed fondly. “You look good.”
“Thank you. So do you, but then, you always were a handsome devil.”
“And you were always a beautiful woman.”
He was tall and slender, dapper and fit. He still had all his hair, but the blond color had faded to silver, so he appeared very distinguished, and no doubt, he’d grow more handsome as the decades passed.
Being forty, she was still plenty attractive too. At five-foot-five in her slippers, she was enticingly curvaceous. Her green eyes were merry, her auburn hair lush and curly as ever, but there were a few hints of gray woven into the strands.
In a world where nearly every female was blond and blue-eyed, she was incredibly unique, so she and Charles had been an arresting couple. They’d caused bystanders to stop and watch them when they’d walked down the street together. She missed those days when people had stared and wondered if she was someone important.
“If we keep tossing compliments at each other,” she said, “the air will become so sickly sweet we won’t be able to breathe.”
“I’m just so delighted to see you. I can’t guard my flattering tongue.”
“I enjoy a bit of flattery so feel free to shower me with it.”
“I’ve thought about you so many times,” he ludicrously said.
She’d obsessed over him too. Not that she’d admit it. What was the point?
For years, she’d peeked out at audiences, checking the dandies up in the box seats, wishing he’d be there, but once he’d retired to the country to wed Florence, he’d never returned to town. Or if he had, she hadn’t crossed paths with him.
She’d taken to reading the newspaper in the hopes that his name would be printed there, but after his debacle with Amanda, he’d sworn to never engage in any conduct that would put him back in the public eye, so there’d never been any articles.
Florence’s obituary had been reported when the unlikable shrew had died, and with his being a widower, Fish had toyed with the idea of traveling to Roland to ask if he’d needed comforting. But in the end, she hadn’t committed the idiotic act.
“You haven’t thought about me,” she told him. “Don’t tell lies or my head will swell due to my assuming you’re sincere.”
“I’m not lying. I have often pondered you.”
“Have you been fixated on what might have been for us?” She scoffed. “Nothing sensible could have transpired. At this late date, please don’t rewrite our history.”
“Haven’t you ever imagined a different conclusion?”
“Since I was the one who would have been happy to stick around, and you were the one who scurried home to wed your cousin, I don’t believe I should have to answer you.”
“Touché, Fish. You always were pithy in your assessment of any situation.”
“How was your marriage to Florence?” she brazenly inquired. It was a rude query, but she posed it anyway. “Was it as horrid as I predicted it would be?”
“I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
She snorted with amusement. “Don’t hold back on my account.”
“I will confess—only to you—that it was very dreary, but in light of my first disastrous leap into matrimony, I was desperate for dreary. I was determined to never suffer a minute of excitement ever again.”
“Did she ever forgive you for your elopement? I warned you that she wouldn’t.”
“No, she never forgave me, and she constantly apprised me—in quiet ways—that she was angry, but I fully deserved her ire.”
He’d been betrothed to Florence when he was a boy. She’d been raised, expecting to be his countess, but he’d run off with Amanda instead. Amanda had been a singer who’d burst onto the London stage where she’d tantalized all the eminent men of his generation. He’d been anxious to claim her before anyone else could.
She’d been deranged though. She’d possessed none of the skills required to succeed as a wife or a countess, and she’d had wild tendencies that had grown more pronounced after she’d birthed Little Henrietta.
They’d fought relentlessly, and she’d finally left him, after accusing him of being an abusive ogre. From Fish’s own experiences with him, she knew he wasn’t violent or abusive, but Amanda had been a lunatic who could have driven even the most docile spouse to lash out.
“Florence birthed you two children,” Fish said. “You must take some satisfaction from that.”
“Yes, a boy and a girl. My son, Warwick, is in the army at my request. He was exhibiting some of the traits I displayed when I was twenty.”
“Meaning what? He was consorting with actresses and other trollops?”
“Yes, but I shipped him off to a regiment so he couldn’t become completely debauched.”
“Lady Penny seems to have turned out all right.”
“So far, I haven’t noticed a single bad attribute in her. She’s been the easiest daughter any father could ever have sired.”
“I’m glad for you.”
“Tell me about your life,” he said.
