Charles marched over, grabbed him by his shirt, and lifted him off his feet. He pulled him up until they were nose to nose. “Go now! Don’t make me tell you twice.”
Charles flung him away. Periwinkle staggered, then straightened. He grinned at Charles and said, “People are eager to read about their betters. I could pen a very sympathetic story—about both of you.”
Charles didn’t waste his breath answering. He simply spun away, took Miss Carstairs’s arm, and they went into the house. He didn’t glance back.
“You’re distraught,” Lord Roland said. “Would you like a glass of sherry? Would it soothe your nerves?”
Libby smiled at him. “I can’t abide sherry. Would you view me as being terribly debauched if I had a whiskey instead?”
He snorted. “Ah, a girl after my own heart.”
They were sequestered in a small parlor, the door closed to shield them from any intruders. She didn’t suppose Periwinkle would enter the manor, but if he dared, he wouldn’t find them.
Besides, Lord Roland had whispered to the first footman they’d encountered and had told the boy to round up some other male servants and chase Periwinkle away. Libby was thrilled by the order. She had no desire to have the intrusive fiend accost her ever again.
There was a liquor tray on a table in the corner, and Lord Roland poured two glasses. Libby stood by the window and gazed out at the garden where the afternoon festivities were progressing. She couldn’t see Luke anywhere, and she wondered if he was mingling in the crowd.
Her yearning to talk to him about what had just happened was so tangible that it seemed like a physical need she couldn’t slake. Clearly, her fixation was ridiculous, and she had to shuck it off, the problem being that she had no idea how.
Lord Roland came over and handed her a glass, and they sipped their beverages and stared out at the revelers.
“Has Mr. Periwinkle been stalking you for long?” he asked.
“He’s been trying to stalk me, but my cousin, Simon, has kept him away.”
“I hadn’t realized it was the twentieth anniversary of your rescue.”
“Neither had I—until Periwinkle started hounding me.”
The comment was a bald-faced lie. There was never a minute of the day that she didn’t ponder her rescue by those navy sailors. Because Uncle Harry had turned her tragedy into a performance monologue, she was never able to not think about it. The event had defined her life, but she didn’t remember much about what had actually transpired.
Any authentic recollection had been dragged out of her by Harry when she was tiny, then he’d enhanced her memories so it sounded even more catastrophic than it had been. She couldn’t guess which portions were genuine and which were faked for dramatic effect.
Occasionally, at night when she couldn’t sleep, she’d struggle to recall reliable details. There were things like her gripping a piece of wood and floating in the ocean in the dark. Adults had been shouting at her to hold on tight so she didn’t slip away.
She assumed it was a valid image. She hated bodies of water and the dark, and she never placed herself in a spot where there was shouting. That sort of experience lit a huge fire under her anxiety.
She remembered being on the island with Caroline and Joanna, remembered snuggling together like puppies. When she shut her eyes, she could feel their warm skin against her own.
But she didn’t remember her parents, didn’t remember the ship they’d been on, leaving England, or being out on the ocean. It was as if the frightening incident had been wiped clean. A doctor had once told her that it was a typical reaction after a calamity. A person could only handle so much scary information, then she buried the rest.
She would love to see Caroline and Joanna again. They’d been closer than sisters and inordinately attached. Then, when Harry had arrived to claim her, they’d been ripped apart. She hadn’t been allowed to tell them goodbye, and it was a wound that still hadn’t healed.
Did they suffer the same nightmares as Libby? Would they like to meet her? What would a reunion be like? What might they remember that she didn’t?
The prospect was too daunting to consider, so she never considered it. Periwinkle’s offer to put Libby in contact with them was tempting, but she remained too fearful to follow through. So she wouldn’t follow through.
Men liked to talk about themselves, and she didn’t like to talk about herself. She had a thousand questions she’d like to ask Lord Roland, and for once, there was no one to interrupt or distract them. If she was shrewd in her queries, what might he confide?
She peered up at him and said, “You survived a disaster, didn’t you, when you were younger? Apparently, you’re facing a big anniversary too. We have that in common.”
“I hadn’t really thought about it. I never dwell on that appalling period.”
“May I inquire about it? Or would you rather I mind my own business?”
“You can inquire. It played out very publicly, so there aren’t many facts that haven’t been chewed over. If you dig into something you shouldn’t, I’ll absolutely order you to butt out.”
She chuckled, and they clinked the rims of their glasses.
“I’ll just be very bold,” she said, “and mention your first wife. She left you, and you ended up divorced and disgraced.”
“I will defend myself by insisting I was stupid and wild, and no offense, but I eloped with a singer. It was such a stunning misstep that I’m amazed I didn’t send the Earth spinning off its axis.”
“Weren’t you ever apprised that disparate people shouldn’t wed? Down through the centuries, there’s been plenty of evidence that it never works out. What’s the old adage? Like should stick to like.”
He smirked. “I didn’t want that adage to be true, but I learned my lesson in a very hard way.”
“You had a
