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Roland ground his teeth. Rich was definitely too perceptive. He forced his jaw to unclench. “As I have been judged guilty either way, what would you advise?”
His friend’s smile was beatific. “Apologize for your boorish behavior and smooth the lady’s ruffled feathers, thereby engendering peace and cooperation rather than discord and unpleasantness.”
“Apologize?”
“Yes. I understand the concept is a foreign one to you, as it is to most of our sex, but when it comes to bruised female pride, I think you’ll find a little humility on your part will go a long way.” A knowing smirk twitched his lips. “Apologize to a woman, and you’ll find yourself the object of her devout affection thereafter.”
“Even if I did such a thing, she would never believe me,” Roland countered. “Our conflict is one I doubt may be resolved by something as simple as saying I’m sorry.”
A low whistle issued from Rich’s pursed lips. “You must have been an ass of unparalleled magnitude to have earned such enmity. Knowing you as I do, I can well imagine her umbrage. What in heaven’s name did you say to the woman?”
He wasn’t about to tell that story. “Nothing of any great significance. A few words were exchanged at William’s funeral. She mistook what I said and was not in a state to be reasoned with.”
“Well, it was significant to the lady,” said Rich. “Peace comes at a price for us all, my friend. Tell me, would you rather humble yourself for five minutes and have it or would you rather matters between you continue in their current state?”
Roland maintained his silence.
“Start with an apology.” Rich laughed. “A sincere one, if you can possibly manage it, and then work your way back into her good graces.”
“Thanks,” Roland muttered, throwing him a black look. “I could have gotten that advice from my mother.”
“You could, if your mother were here,” said Rich with a merry grin. “As she is not, I shall have to suffice—or rather suffer in her place.”
“You do so inspire one to entrust you with the burdens of one’s heart.”
Ignoring his sarcasm, Rich swept a low bow. “I’m glad to be of service. By the bye, I wouldn’t expect any instant transformation on her part, if I were you,” he added. “You’re going to have to earn her good regard. From what I gather, you’ll have plenty of work just to get her to speak to you in a civil tone, much less convince her to come to your bed.”
“I have no intention of doing any such—”
A loud snort erupted from his friend.
It was hopeless. “Believe me when I say that Harriett is not a woman to be trifled with.”
“Ah, but those are the sweetest of all conquests,” said Rich, his smile remaining unchanged. “Should you manage to win her affection, your ferocious Harriett will likely prove as ardent an ally as she is an unpleasant enemy. Something to think on, is it not?”
Roland’s thoughts concerning Harriett, which had already been treading the line between irritation and lust, again swung dangerously toward the latter. No. He could not afford to desire her. “I seek only to establish civility between us, nothing more.”
The corners of Rich’s mouth quirked. “Suit yourself. I should like to meet this Harriett one day. Any woman capable of sending you into such a dither is worth knowing.”
A sudden, intense dislike for the man, a man Roland considered one of his closest friends, filled him. He shrugged it off. Not that he cared, but even if Rich did approach her, Harriett was a Lady, and Ladies did not socialize with entrepreneurial men, much less actors. He might run the best theater in London, but the instant she discovered his role onstage as the ludicrous “Lun,” she would refuse any association.
But she claimed Mr. Blume as a “friend,” didn’t she?
Despite the tightness in his gut, Roland forced his face to relax, his lips to smile. “Perhaps one day the stars will align and I shall bring her to see one of your operas.”
Rich smiled back, a knowing look in his eyes. “I shall look forward to it. In the meantime, I suggest you practice the art of humility—or at least learn to give the appearance of it.”
~ * ~
Harriett still trembled inside as she dressed for tonight’s event, an evening of poetry at Lord and Lady Abernathy’s. She didn’t much feel like going, but Cat would flay her alive if she begged off. Even so, she seriously considered claiming the headache that had been pounding at her temples since the departure of that oaf, Manchester.
Just the thought of him made her stomach knot. He would come tomorrow. She’d relived every second of their encounter in her mind several times and come to the determination that it was a certainty. From the smell of him, he’d been drinking, but his reactions had not been those of a man soaked. He would remember. And because she’d once humiliated him—no matter how well-deserved her actions had been—he would never pass up an opportunity to make her life difficult.
Her chin rose as she looked her reflection in the eye. Let him try and find fault! She’d known this day would come and had prepared for it well. Her record-keeping had always been “meticulous,” as he’d put it. By the time he completed his little investigation, he would have no legitimate complaint.
The door opened. “Are you quite finished?” asked Cat, impatient as always.
“Almost,” Harriett answered, patting a curl into place. “We won’t be able to stay late, you understand.” Tomorrow would be an early start, even for her. There had been no time to tidy the office before leaving. She’d meant to do it today in preparation for Manchester’s visit tomorrow—his planned visit—but his unexpected arrival a da
