One end sported turrets, as if the section was older and had originally been a castle. It provided evidence of the Watson family’s permanence, their staking a claim that had endured for generations. For a female who had always yearned to belong somewhere, the prospect left her extremely jealous.
“It’s awfully fancy,” Simon murmured. “Could you picture yourself living there as Lord Barrett’s countess?”
She laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not cut out to be anybody’s countess. Especially Luke Watson’s.”
“I think you’re quite as posh as they come,” he loyally declared. “Why couldn’t you be exactly who he needs? Don’t sell yourself short. I never will.”
His remarks sent a surge of vanity sweeping through her. Why couldn’t she be Luke’s bride?
She’d never previously considered marriage to a man like him, but why couldn’t she have a home like this? She’d constantly felt as if she should have owned just this sort of place, and she suffered a wave of resentment and a heavy sense of loss over all that Fate had taken from her.
It had her reflecting on the dreadful year she’d experienced after being rescued by the navy on her deserted island. She’d been returned to England where strangers had bickered over what should be done with her. She’d been terrified every second, with no ease arriving until Harry had waltzed in and whisked her away.
With few questions asked, he’d been allowed to traipse off with her, which had stirred a whole new pot of problems. Why let Simon blather on until she dredged it all up? Why ponder any of it?
“I’m not discussing Lord Barrett with you ever again,” she said, “and it’s recently occurred to me that you are spending too much time with your nose poked into the middle of my private affairs.”
“I’m simply trying to help, Cousin. I’m trying to guarantee you wind up precisely where you’re supposed to be.”
“And where is that?”
“Why, at Lord Barrett’s side of course. Glued there by matrimony—if at all possible.”
“You grow more absurd by the day.”
She pulled her horse around and kicked it into a canter. She didn’t glance back to see if he followed, for she couldn’t bear to see his pompous grin.
Luke dawdled at the back of the music salon at Roland. Supper was over, and there was an evening musicale in progress before the dancing began. Several guests had volunteered to sing or play the pianoforte, but Libby was to provide the finale.
There was a small stage so the audience would have a good view of the show. It was standing room only, and he was supposed to be sitting in the front row with Penny and Charles, but he hadn’t dared join them while Libby performed her scene. He’d have been drooling over her, his obsession so blatant that he wouldn’t have been able to conceal it.
After having convinced Libby to participate, Penny had been nervously touting the recital all day, anxious to be sure there were no empty seats, but she hadn’t needed to publicize Libby’s involvement. People were agog over her, and even those who’d seen her monologues in the past were excited to see her again.
He was Charles’s neighbor, and they’d always been friendly. He would never deliberately provoke a conflict with him, would never insult his daughter by misbehaving with another woman—right under Charles’s roof. Especially with one who was so inappropriate to his station in life.
Libby was the female a man picked to be his glamorous mistress. She was the one selected to waltz about on a fellow’s arm when he was attending a decadent soiree. She wasn’t the sort to be flaunted at a respectable venue, so what was he thinking?
His infatuation was almost scary in its intensity, and his inability to leave her alone was disgusting.
She’d vanished all day, and he’d been so afraid she might have fled Roland—even though she’d sworn she wouldn’t—that he’d actually crept into her bedchamber and had checked that her clothes were still there.
He was dangerously curious about where she’d been for so many hours, and he’d tortured himself, speculating as to whether she might have spent the afternoon with someone else.
He truly did not know how he could continue on in such an agitated state. His possessive attitude was so out of character that he couldn’t figure out what was occurring. He had to calm down before he completely disgraced himself.
The candles were blown out, the room growing dark except for a circle of light in the middle of the stage. Libby stepped into it, and she was attired like an orphaned waif in a thin white shift, her feet bare, her glorious hair curling around her shoulders.
She looked nothing like the seductive siren who was driving him insane. Instead, she looked like a young child who was lost, and her skill at repurposing herself attested to her prowess as an actress.
When he’d watched her at the theater in London, she’d told a tale about sleeping under the stars, snuggled like puppies with the other two girls who’d been marooned with her. This time, she told about being on a deserted beach, searching for an adult who would tell her how to carry on, but she was stranded and on her own.
She sang a bit and danced a bit, and in the shadows, it appeared that her cousin, Simon Falcon, was accompanying her on the harpsichord. They were an excellent team that held spectators rapt.
She interspersed the musical numbers with a running description of her woebegone plight. It was all terribly melodramatic, and he should have been bored silly, but she was so mesmerizing that it was impossible not to be swept up in her narrative.
She wound to the end, and there was a moment of delicious silence where no
