They’d just spent two hours with Miss James, where she’d regaled them with stories about her time on the deserted island after the shipwreck. Throughout the whole conversation, Margaret had concentrated on Miss James, so she hadn’t bothered to note how Jacob was absorbing her information. Had he gazed at her like an obsessed swain?
Margaret dithered and debated. If he was fond of Miss James, was it any of Margaret’s business? If his affection skewed his attitude about Roxanne, might it push him to cry off? Would Margaret care if the betrothal fell apart?
Miss James was gorgeous, smart, and fascinating. She had peculiar habits and intriguing talents, so it was easy to comprehend why Jacob would be charmed. But he couldn’t have any honorable intentions. She had no parent to protect her, offer guidance, or warn her to be wary, and while she seemed too astute to be trapped in a romantic quagmire, shrewd females constantly landed themselves in trouble with men.
Margaret blew out a heavy breath, then exited her room. She marched down the rear stairs, and she got lucky, bumping into her brother as he was coming in from the garden.
“Is it time for supper already?” he asked. “Gad, I’m so late.”
“We still have a few minutes. Could I talk to you? Alone?”
“Of course.”
They tromped back up the stairs, and his bedchamber suite was closest, so she led him into the sitting room. He shut the door, as she went over to the table in the corner where his valet kept a stocked liquor tray. She poured them both a whiskey, and he took his glass from her. They clinked the rims together.
“Here is to Miss James,” he said, “for painting such a splendid picture of Father. He’s been denigrated so often in this house that I can’t remember when any of us had a good word to say about him.”
“Her comments were so interesting. I’ve always wanted to see Miss Carstairs on the stage to hear how she’d describe him, but this was even better.”
“I agree.”
He downed his liquor and refilled his glass, then he asked, “What did you need? Can we deal with it quickly? I have to change my clothes.” He grinned. “Roxanne can’t abide tardiness. She might rap my knuckles with a ruler.”
Margaret sipped her drink more slowly, studying him, worrying about him. She was probably in no position to butt her nose in, but she was his sister, and there was no one else who’d dare.
They’d had little moral teaching in their life. Their father had died when they were children, and their mother had been a shrew who had liked to shout, hit, and throw things, so they’d practically raised themselves, having to figure out on their own how to be responsible adults.
“I have to discuss an awkward topic with you,” she said. “Promise you won’t get upset.”
“I doubt I will. I don’t have much of a temper. In that, I try to never act like Mother.”
It was a paltry assurance, but she accepted it and forged ahead. “I was looking out my window a bit ago, and you were in the rose arbor with Miss James.”
“Oh . . .”
“Would you like to clarify what that was about?”
“No.”
“Are you flirting with her?”
“No,” he said again.
“What should I take that to mean? You were kissing her, so has it progressed beyond flirting? Have you seduced her? Is that it?”
“No, I haven’t seduced her. I . . . I . . .” He cut off his remark, appearing bewildered. “I can’t explain what’s happening. I . . . ah . . . like her. That’s all.”
She snorted with derision. “A man like you can’t be friends with a girl like her. You’re aware of that.”
“I know.”
“What does she believe is happening?”
“I haven’t asked her.”
“Shouldn’t you—before this goes any farther? I can guarantee she assumes you’re about to tender a commitment.”
“She would never assume that. She’s not like other females. She doesn’t sit on pins and needles, wondering if a proposal is about to be voiced.”
“If you’ve convinced yourself of that, then you’re an idiot. All women are the same—when they’re in love. Is she in love with you?”
“Gad, no.”
“What about Roxanne?”
“What about her?”
His tone was caustic, as if it was out of bounds for Margaret to inquire, and her aggravation ignited. He was being deliberately obtuse, deliberately mocking, and she reminded herself to stay calm, to wade through the conversation without quarreling.
“Roxanne is expecting to marry you, and she’s so eager that she’s hoping to move up the wedding date to September.”
“She told you that?”
“Yes.”
“She shouldn’t have. I’m not rushing the date.”
Margaret frowned. “Have you decided not to wed her? Is it because of Miss James?”
He didn’t reply, but glared mutinously, and she couldn’t read his expression. Was he reneging? Was he still reflecting? Had he reached no conclusion? What?
“Mother arranged this match for you,” she said, “and Roxanne traveled from Italy on your verbal agreement. At this stage of the game, wouldn’t it be breach of promise?”
“I’m not about to cry off.”
“Then what are you about to do? And don’t lie to me. This is too important.”
He shrugged and stepped away from her. They’d been huddled by the hearth, murmuring quietly, and he addressed her from across the room.
“My relationship with Joanna has spurred me to evaluate my intentions with regard to Roxanne.”
“You’re that fond of her?”
“It’s not that I’m fond precisely. It’s that—if I could grow so besotted—why would I marry Roxanne? Might it not be better if I remain a bachelor? I haven’t answered that question.”
“In the interim, you can’t suppose it’s appropriate to carry on an affair with Miss James. Not right under Roxanne’s nose. The neighborhood is too small, and she’ll find out. No bride should have to put up with such disrespect.”
“You’re not telling me what I haven’t already considered.”
“Will you marry Miss James instead of Roxanne? It’s not that, is it? She’s very pretty, and I like her very much, but she’s so far beneath you.”
“I understand that, and I’m not picking her over
