Had Millicent persuaded herself that he wasn’t serious? Had she assumed she could win him anyway, despite his reluctance?
Perhaps he should begin nudging Millicent to consider a new direction for herself. With Warwick in the army, and Penny about to be a wife and leave too, he didn’t need Millicent hovering. Had that situation already dawned on her? Was it fueling her surly mood?
He reached his bedchamber and was met by his valet, but he sent the man off to join the servants’ party down in the kitchen. He changed his own clothes, donning a comfortable shirt and trousers. Then he poured himself a whiskey and went over to stare out the window, but it was cloudy, so there wasn’t much to see.
It was very quiet, and for once, he was lonely and chafing over how small his world had grown. The realization surprised him. He wasn’t keen on self-assessment. His antics as a young man had proved that he had an unrestrained side to his personality. He’d learned to ignore it until, gradually, it had vanished.
But the fascinating Miss Carstairs, with her poignant performance, had ignited a fire of emotion in his breast. He was reminiscing over squandered possibilities. Her cousin, Mr. Falcon, was spurring him to recollect what it had been like to be rich and wickedly handsome and brazenly prancing about in London.
After that interval had collapsed in scandal, he’d forced himself to become stodgy and boring, but he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t feeble or decrepit. He was only forty-six, and it had been so bloody long since he’d truly enjoyed himself. The house was filled to the rafters with people who were making merry. Why shouldn’t he be one of them?
He downed his whiskey, then poured himself another and downed it too. He spent a few more minutes staring outside, and he knew what was bothering him: Edwina Fishburn was bothering him. And she was right down the hall. She was like a thorn he couldn’t pluck out.
The first evening after she’d arrived, he’d tried to convince her to walk in the garden with him. It had been a huge blow to his ego to have her decline. He’d avoided her ever since, but why had he?
The manor was his castle, and he was king of it. Why not approach her again?
He’d been suffocating at Roland for two decades, but he hadn’t forgotten how to tempt a lady to misbehave. A gentleman never really lost that sort of skill, and his had merely been hidden out of sight. It was time to pull it out and let it fly free.
Poor Fish didn’t stand a chance.
When the door from the hall opened, Fish was loafing in a chair, drinking a brandy, and gazing out at the cloudy sky. A fresh breeze was wafting in, and she could smell rain in the air. She was ready for bed, attired in just her nightgown, her hair down and brushed out.
She hadn’t been given a fancy suite like Libby, so she didn’t have a sitting or dressing room. Her bedroom was tiny and modest, the type offered to an unwelcome guest in the hopes that it would encourage a short stay.
“Hello, Fish,” Charles said from behind her.
She sighed and glanced over her shoulder. “Hello, Charles. Hurry and close the door, would you? I don’t suppose you ought to be observed sneaking into my bedchamber.”
“No, I shouldn’t.”
When Simon had initially mentioned the invitation to Roland, she’d figured Charles wouldn’t even remember her, so it would be safe to visit. But apparently, they had unfinished business to resolve. Where would it lead? How would it end?
She couldn’t imagine, but they had to deal with their old issues, or she’d always regret it.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“What do you think I’m doing?”
“I have no idea, but you were always a fool. I’m sure you’ve concocted a totally ridiculous excuse to explain yourself.”
He grinned. “Maybe.”
That grin still had the power to knock her sideways. Where he was concerned, she’d never been able to keep a level head. One would presume, after twenty odd years as an adult, she’d start making more sensible choices, but perhaps—in light of how she viewed the world—that wasn’t possible.
She was at Roland, and he was at Roland, and she’d be in residence for a quick sojourn. Why not enjoy a bit more entertainment than she’d originally planned?
She stood and walked over to him. She held out her glass of brandy. He grabbed it and downed the contents.
“After you first arrived,” he said, “I invited you to walk in the garden with me, but you refused.”
“I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to decide I had no right to disobey your grand self.”
“You will be in my home for a fortnight.”
“Probably.”
He scowled. “Why probably?”
“I mean Libby has other irons in the fire, and I go where she goes.”
The sole hot iron for Libby was her brewing affair with Lord Barrett. The man was absolutely obsessed, to the point where he was willing to ruin his future just to have her.
The reckless pair would eventually be caught, then a huge brouhaha would erupt. Fish, Simon, and Libby would most likely have to slither away in the dark of night. Lord Barrett would have completely disgraced himself, while also managing to destroy his cordial relationship with Charles.
Fish would watch it all unravel, praying the bricks in Lord Barrett’s wall of chaos didn’t pummel her as they fell.
“You’re not leaving Roland before the party ends,” Charles said.
Fish tsked with annoyance. “You are just as bossy as you were twenty years ago.”
“And you, dear Fish, are just as stubborn. It’s silly to argue with me on any topic. Haven’t you learned that by now?”
“You haven’t seen me in two decades. Why would you automatically assume I’ll
