She chuckled. “I never married.”
“May I hope—after falling in love with me—that no other fellow matched up?”
“No, you may not hope that. It was more along the lines of me learning how painful a broken heart could be and my vowing never to suffer one again.”
“I broke your heart? Really?”
“Yes, you arrogant oaf, and you know it too. Don’t pretend.”
“I’m enjoying this conversation more and more. Admit it. You’ve been pining away all these years.”
She rolled her eyes. “You are so full of yourself, and I don’t want to talk about me.”
“Why not?”
“Since we parted, nothing interesting ever happened. I realized I would never move into lead roles at the theater, so I reined in my dreams and built a place for myself behind the curtain.”
“Sewing for people like Miss Carstairs? Was it a good choice?”
She shrugged. “It was good enough.”
“Was there ever a beau who tickled your fancy after me?”
She could have told the truth and said no, but she wouldn’t stroke his ego, so she claimed, “I work in the theater, Charles, around actors and rich dandies. I had dozens of affairs after the one I had with you.”
He studied her, then scoffed. “You did not. Your face is still an open book to me. There haven’t been any.”
“There have been a few, and that’s all you need to know about it. And we’re finished discussing me.”
“For now,” he said like a threat. “I intend to dig out every detail of what’s occurred since I last saw you.”
“I already mentioned what they are: I stopped acting and became a costumer. I journey across the country, tagging after Libby and dressing her for her shows. That’s it.”
“You’re much too fascinating for that to be the whole story.”
He looked as if he’d start spewing a myriad of questions she’d refuse to answer. She didn’t like to focus on herself, on the paths that had never opened, on the men who were never worth it. She was forty and a spinster and that was the total sum of her biography.
She had Simon and Libby to care for, and she was relieved to have them, but as she took stock of where she currently stood, it didn’t seem like she’d come very far.
“We should talk about you,” she said. “It’s the topic you always relished the most.”
“I’m still the vain brute you frequently accused me of being. I can’t deny it.”
“Was there ever any news of Little Henrietta?”
“No, never a word.”
“Are you still searching for her?”
“Not anymore. I have acquaintances who travel in Europe, and they watch for Amanda, but there’s never been a sighting. She was such a flamboyant character; I’m sure she’d have popped up on a stage somewhere.”
“I’m sure too.”
“She never could have hidden herself away,” he said, “so I’ve had to accept that she and Henrietta met with a bad end.”
“They died?”
“I’m certain of it.”
“What a morbid comment. It proves you’ve spent too much time wallowing in the country with dullards like Florence. It makes me want to tarry so I can fill your head with positive thoughts.”
“I like the sound of that.” Suddenly, his gaze grew a tad more wolfish. “How long can you stay?”
“I’m here for two weeks—if Libby remains for the entire party.”
“She might leave?”
“Yes.” Lord Barrett’s presence at Roland was irritating Libby, so Fish couldn’t predict what she’d decide. “She’s been offered a lucrative contract in London,” Fish lied, “so we might have to return earlier than we planned.”
“I’ll have to convince her to delay. You only just arrived, and I’m not about to have you flit off immediately.”
“I probably shouldn’t have come.”
He stepped in so he was much closer than he should be. She put a palm on his chest to push him back, but he didn’t move.
“Why are you really at Roland?” he asked. “Please tell me it was because you were anxious to see me again.”
“It wasn’t that. I didn’t actually think you’d remember me.”
“Not remember you? Are you daft?”
“It would have been a huge blow to my ego, but I’d been bracing for that result.”
“Would you walk in the garden with me?” he inquired out of the blue.
“Why?”
“Why would you suppose? I’d like to get you alone and take advantage of you.”
“I’m forty.”
“Yes, and I’m forty-six, but we’re not dead.”
“Not yet anyway.”
“Let’s go. Let’s find a dark spot and misbehave. You can’t have forgotten how.”
He clasped her hand, ready to march off and expecting her to blithely follow him.
Men were such peculiar creatures. She hadn’t spoken to him in almost twenty years. They’d chatted for a few minutes, and he was prepared to philander. Why would he instantly figure she’d be interested?
She glanced out into the garden, and she had to admit his suggestion was tempting. She was one of those odd women who relished a man’s physical attentions, and in the past, he’d been remarkably adept at passionate sport. He probably still was.
Why not oblige him? Why not?
As the prospect raced through her head, she reminded herself why not: She had a tender heart that was easily broken. She’d learned to set her sights on cads like Harry, men who were born to be disappointments so—when they fled—nobody missed them, most especially herself.
If she dashed off to frolic with Charles, she’d be dragged right back into his life, and she couldn’t let it happen.
“Answer one question for me,” she said.
“If I can.”
“Are you intimately attached to your sister-in-law?”
He was aghast. “To Millicent? Gad, no. She simply lives with us. She came to us after Florence died, to help out. Her brother married and started a family, so she stayed on because she has nowhere else to go.”
“She has designs on you. Haven’t you noticed?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“It’s plainly visible, but you’re a man so it wouldn’t have occurred to you.”
“She’s not sweet on me. She’s cared for the children
