She laughed and entered his study uninvited, taking a seat in the chair across from his desk. “Are you going to tell me or make me pry it out of you?”
Roman gave her a long, measuring look, then decided he might as well talk to her about it. Heaven knew he could use a woman’s perspective on the matter. “I received an invitation,” he said with a shrug.
She frowned. “Why does that have you so strangely excited? You usually abhor social events.”
“I do,” he agreed. “But I believe this one was sent to me by the Duchess of Clayton.”
“Ah,” she said sagely, leaning back in her chair and gazing at him as though she’d never seen him before.
One night, well in his cups and feeling unusually sentimental, he’d shared his thoughts on his failed relationship with the marquess’s daughter he’d once thought to make his bride even though he had nothing to offer her. Given the look on his cousin’s face, she remembered much more of that conversation than he’d hoped.
“That’s all you have to say?” he asked tightly.
“She’s invited you to her home?” Collette arched one dark eyebrow over her unusual pale blue eyes. “Is she even out of mourning yet?”
“The invitation is not to her home,” Roman admitted. “In fact, I have no idea where I’m going or if the duchess was even the one to send it. But today marks eighteen months to the day since her husband died.”
“Not that you’re counting,” Collette said with a rueful laugh.
“Did I tell you I went to the old man’s funeral?” he asked, his mind drifting back to his latest folly where Clarice was concerned. He still wasn’t quite certain why he’d done it. She hadn’t spoken to him for more than a few moments, and he honestly hadn’t expected her to. It wasn’t as though she could have declared her undying love nor even admitted she’d made a mistake by marrying the ancient duke. Still, he’d wanted to see for himself that she was all right, wanted to remind her of what they’d once meant to each other.
“Oh, Roman,” Collette murmured, the laughter in her voice replaced by a hint of pity. “I don’t think anyone else who knows you would believe that you do have a heart under all that devil-may-care attitude.”
He scoffed and looked away. Collette was probably right. After Clarice had broken his heart, he’d done his level best to forget about her. A task that had required him to gamble, drink excessively, and jump from the bed of one lady to the next until they all ran together in his head and he’d more than earned the title of scoundrel he was still plagued by.
But despite all the women who’d graced his bed, his thoughts were only plagued by one. The one he’d been trying to forget all along. Dozens of love affairs, and not a single one had made him forget his love for Clarice. In fact, they’d only proven time and again that she had been special.
“Well, be careful, dear cousin,” Collette cautioned him when he remained silent. “She’s only in half-mourning. Her reputation will be ruined if she’s seen with a womanizer like you.”
He gave her a chiding glance. “You know that I don’t do that anymore. Ever since I became the earl, I’ve taken my responsibilities seriously.”
“I know that,” she agreed placidly. “You know that. But the rest of the world still sees you as the scoundrel from the gossip rags.”
His jaw worked in agitation as he tried to come up with some evidence to dispute her claim. Unfortunately, he had none to offer. A reputation was easy to destroy and very difficult, if not impossible, to restore.
“And that’s exactly why I’ll be careful not to do anything that would compromise the duchess,” he said emphatically. “I just want to see her.”
Collette leaned across the desk and covered his hand with hers. “Then I hope that she was the one who sent the invitation.”
Chapter Three
The sounds of a coach arriving on the street below Matron Manor, the Wicked Widows’ townhouse, startled Clarice to the core, even though she’d been pacing the lovely maroon and cream drawing room all evening, listening for just such a thing. Heart racing, she dashed to the window, pulled the heavy curtains aside a few inches, and peered breathlessly down.
A gentleman alighted from the carriage and straightened his greatcoat before glancing up at the house. For some reason, she snapped the curtains shut again, feeling like a child caught looking for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. Still, she couldn’t help but smile.
Roman was here. He’d actually come.
Deep down, she’d been certain that he wouldn’t. After all, he had no idea who had even invited him here. For all her daring, all her plotting, she hadn’t dared to sign the invitation with her name.
The possibility that he’d show it to someone else had been part of the reason. Even though her heart wanted to believe he’d never betray her in such a way, she didn’t truly know how deep his anger ran. And it had also occurred to her that if he didn’t come because she hadn’t signed her name, she could blame that instead of knowing that he just hadn’t wanted to see her.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm her rioting nerves and took a seat by the fire, not wanting him to know how anxious she’d been for his arrival. Downing a deep drink of the mulled wine in her glass, she listened to his low voice speaking to the butler—Mr. Smith, who she’d been assured was the soul of discretion—then braced herself as the two men entered the room.
Her gaze caught his, the chasm of years between them disappearing as Mr. Smith discreetly left and closed the door behind him.
“Your Grace,” he said at last, his voice giving away absolutely nothing.
“Please,” she said, and her own voice broke with emotion. “Don’t call me that.” The title was symbolic of everything that had gone wrong between them, and she couldn’t bear to hear it from his lips.
