Page 2 of Miss Dramatic
Amaryllis would be hurt, possibly furious. “I won’t run off.” Appending the wordagainwas unnecessary. For the two years Gavin had performed on the provincial stages, his family hadn’t known where to find him, through no direct fault of his.
The indirect fault had been and remained entirely his.
“Splendid.” Phillip came around the desk and clapped him on the back. “You will enjoy yourself, and we might even let you do some of that to-be-or-not-to-be business. The guests we’re expecting are a bookish lot, and they will doubtless appreciate some rousing speeches from a tall, dark, and brooding Hamlet.”
“Not Hamlet,” Gavin said, and brooding was doing it a bit brown. “The poor fellow went mad, committed suicide by duel, and left his kingdom ripe for plucking by a foreign invader. I don’t suppose you have a copy of the guest list?”
Another shared glance that spoke volumes.Got him!from Tavistock, andI told you he’d come around,from Phillip.
Tavistock opened the desk’s middle drawer and brandished a piece of foolscap. “Might not be complete, but these are the ladies who have accepted.”
Gavin read down the list, recognized a few names, and allowed himself a gathering sense of relief. Formidable women, but none with a reason to wish him ill. No drunkards or hopeless gamblers, no prattling…
Oh spite. Oh hell. His dearest memory, his deepest regret lurked near the bottom of the list, gracing the space between Lady Iris Wolverhampton and Miss Zinnia Peasegood.
“You see some familiar names, I trust?” Lord Phillip sounded pleased with himself. “I know you and Mrs. Roberts are cordially acquainted.”
“Rose Roberts was at the Nunnsuch house party, wasn’t she?” Tavistock asked, overdoing the curious tone by half. “A widow, as I recollect.”
“Mrs. Roberts was at Nunnsuch,” Gavin replied, passing back the list. “An agreeable, sensible lady.”
“And easy on the eyes,” Phillip added. “Surely you noticed that part?”
How could Gavin have failed to notice that a woman who’d been luminous eighteen months ago despite her grief had bloomed in the wake of mourning? Hair between auburn and Titian that loved both sunlight and candlelight, a smile to intrigue even a saint—Gavin was not a saint—and silences that could bless or condemn. Then there were her hands, her eyes, the way she caressed the rim of her wineglass when her thoughts wandered…
“Quite pretty,” Gavin said. “Also well-read and much enamored of her late spouse, if I’m to believe the Earl of Nunn. I can see why Amaryllis would enjoy her company. Unless you two have any more ambushes to spring upon me, I’m off to see Old Man Deever about a new pair of riding boots.”
The bedrock of any successful role was in the details. Which hat would a rake wear to see his mistress? Which would he wear to take supper at his sister’s house? The audience noticed those details, even if they didn’t realize they noticed.
The mention of riding boots was such a detail—Gavin was notably fond of his colt, Roland—and apparently convincing.
“My regards to the Deevers,” Tavistock said. “Amaryllis and I will expect you and the rest of the family for supper tomorrow evening.”
Gavin assayed his best, harmless smile. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
He knew not to rush his exit and denied himself a moment to tarry in the wings. He cared not one fresh horse dropping how Phillip and Tavistock parsed the conversation.
He knew only that this hen party could foretell his doom, but that he’d risk even his good name if he could once again escort Mrs. Rose Roberts into dinner.
Your brother and I have a past.
Rose Roberts could not say that in the face of Amaryllis DeWitt’s gracious welcome—she was Amaryllis, Marchioness of Tavistock now, which made such a confession an even more daunting prospect. Her ladyship had always had presence, a certain calm self-possession, as had her brother.
In the past eighteen months, Gavin’s self-possession had become the gravitas of a man who knew his place in the world, and that place did not require him to renew old flirtations. Though Rose could not call him Gavin here. He was Mr. DeWitt, just as he’d been Mr. DeWitt for the two interminable weeks of the Nunnsuch house party.
“Welcome to Miller’s Lament,” Lady Tavistock said, taking both of Rose’s hands. “We are so glad you could join us. Hecate has been in transports to know you accepted our invitation.”
Hecate, rather thanLady Phillip. The party was off to a very informal start, which made Rose want to turn right back around and climb into her traveling coach. At the Nunnsuch gathering, she had relied on the Earl of Nunn, an old and trusted ally, to ensure the decorum of the proceedings.
Though a gaggle of proper ladies could hardly turn into a summer bacchanal, could it? Then too, blowing retreat would inspire dear Timmens to new heights of I-told-you-so mutterings and looks, a penance not to be borne, even from a devoted lady’s maid.
“I am delighted to be here,” Rose said, giving her ladyship’s hands a light squeeze. “An inspired idea. If the men must disappear to the grouse moors, why not enjoy the resulting peace and quiet in the company of female friends?”
Dane had never gone off shooting in the north. His expeditions in pursuit of sport had been to Town, always to Town. In late summer, he’d stayed home and pursued the manly art of canoodling with his wife in a duck blind.
“Mrs. Roberts.” Lady Phillip offered Rose the same two-handed welcome Lady Tavistock had. While the marchioness was tall, with dark auburn hair and a few freckles across her cheeks, Lady Phillip was more compact and curvier. She wasn’t a great beauty, but she had a compelling gaze and was said to be a genius with investments.
Rose curtseyed despite the two-handed grip. “A pleasure, my lady.”
