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There on her finger was the ring he’d sent her after his brother’s funeral. She still wore it. She didn’t know he’d sent it, of course, or she’d likely have come to personally cram it down his throat. It had been his way of quietly making amends for his horrid behavior.
A queer, unpleasant sensation unfurled in the pit of his stomach as he continued to stare at her. Along with it came more memories of their final disastrous encounter.
Rather than running off in tears over his insult, she’d gotten right in his face and at the top of her lungs had called him a drunken, heartless, worthless bastard. Shocked to the boot soles, he’d been the one to back away, not her. Unfortunately, thanks to the copious amount of liquor he’d consumed, he’d lost his balance—and had fallen smack into her.
But did she squeal and jump away? No. She hadn’t behaved as any normal female would. Rather, she’d stood her ground and shoved back at him, planting her hands against his chest, sending him right onto his arse before both the living and the dead.
To this day, despite having been raving drunk, he still remembered the instant heat and desire that had overtaken him upon coming into close contact with her. With the woman who had nearly become his sister-in-law. With my brother’s fiancée...
Desperate to get away before she could discern the embarrassing truth, he’d insulted her yet again—and she’d walked right up to where he sat and slapped him. She’d hit him so hard it had knocked the back of his head into the grave marker behind him. That slap, along with the look in her eyes, had left a permanent imprint on his soul.
He watched now, immobilized, as she turned. For an instant, he saw her face in full. Her eyes widened in recognition, again sending a stinging wave of hot prickles down the back of his neck. Half a heartbeat later, someone moved between them and blocked their view of one another.
Roland fled without any care for his dignity and did not stop until he reached an unoccupied salon and put a closed door between himself and that woman. He stood against it, gulping for air.
Damn.
His heart raced, his skin was clammy, and he shook like a man taken by an ague. In the back of his mind he’d known it would be impossible to avoid her entirely, yet still he’d hoped never to lay eyes on her again.
He needed to leave. At once. If history was any sort of guide, there would be an enormous row should the two of them meet. And if history was any sort of guide, he would be on the losing end of it.
After an acceptable interval had passed without event, he opened the door a crack and peeked out. Seeing no one, he ventured into the hall and made his way back to the ballroom. As he approached the entrance, he again caught a glimpse of her still conversing with her friend.
It was pure luck he hadn’t run right into her. He dare not tempt Fate by lingering now. Skirting the edge of the room, he left without bothering to pay respects to Twickenham.
As the London night slipped past his carriage window, he tried not to think about what a bloody coward he’d become.
Three
One Week Later
“Praise the Lord, he signed them!” Harriett exclaimed, looking in disbelief at the papers Mr. Blume handed her.
“Indeed, he did,
my lady. All of them.” His smile was beatific.
Her brows rose farther as she thumbed through the stack. “By George—he authorized the hiring of additional staff, too? I didn’t think that one would make it past him. I must say, I never expected Lord Pain-in-the—” Stopping, she flushed and began again. “I never expected His Grace to be so cooperative. However did you manage to persuade him?”
“There wasn’t really much persuasion to it, I’m afraid,” replied Mr. Blume with a sheepish look. “I believe Lord Manchester might have been just a bit, ah, eager to see the back of me. He never seems to enjoy my visits the way his brother did.”
“Well, I certainly do,” she assured him, rising. “Especially today. Come and have tea with me in the kitchen, Mr. Blume, and we’ll celebrate this miracle with a slice of cake. Mrs. Glasse has created a wonderful new confection—she’s calling it a ‘pound’ cake for the pound of butter it requires. You simply must try it.”
His smile widened. “I could never turn down such a kind offer. Mrs. Glasse’s creations are legendary. The woman ought to write a book of her recipes. She’d likely make a fortune.”
“That is certainly a suggestion worth considering. Perhaps I’ll suggest it to her. Today would have been William’s thirty-sixth birthday, you know,” she told him as they walked. “I thought it fitting that we should mark the day with a bit of joy—hence the cake.”
“I’m sure he would have approved, my lady. He was a good man, the former duke. A noble spirit with a heart for those less fortunate than himself.”
“Yes. Unlike his successor,” Harriett muttered uncharitably. “Though on this day, I suppose we must include him in our gratitude, as well. After all, he did sign the papers. When can we expect to see the funds?”
“I’ve already been to the bank and taken care of it, my lady,” replied the solicitor with good cheer. “I thought it prudent to act at once, lest His Grace come to regret his haste and attempt to retract his largesse. Still, I shouldn’t take too long to make the purchases outlined in your request, if I were you.”
“You are not only skilled in your profession, Mr. Blume, but very wise. I’ve had the papers ready and waiting for the past several weeks now. I shall send them immediately after we’ve had our tea. If His Grace comes looking for his money, he shall find it in the form of provisions, beds, linens, and coal.”
She strode into the vast kitchen and greeted its mistress with warmth. “Dear Mrs. Glasse, might I prevail upon you for tea and two slices of your new cake?”
“Of course, my lady,” answered the cook, beaming. Turning her smile upon their guest, she added, “I’ll be sure to wrap some for you to take back to Mrs. Blume as well as some sweeties for the children.”
