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“And?” he drawled. He wanted to hear her name. A small part of him wanted Charles to say it out loud. Or Desmond. It didn’t really matter which. But he needed the name spoken aloud for them to all reach the same understanding: Mac was feeling murderous, and he had good reason to.
“Miss Sophy,” Charles said, defeated. “Mac, listen—”
Mac held up a hand to halt his friend’s defense. He didn’t want to hear it. He wanted the silence to bubble and fester as Charles and Desmond realized their mistake. He would count to a hundred before he spoke, and he knew that they would let him. He was driving the carriage now, so to speak.
He didn’t actually count to one hundred, but he waited an uncomfortably long period of time. And then he waited a little longer. “You will understand, my friends,” Mac said, emphasizing the false title, “why I have chosen to leave your house party a little early. You can tell the captain that I’m putting up at the inn in Graton.”
“Come on, Mac,” Desmond said. “Sophy may have been a little misguided in her intentions, but I know my sister well, and she has—”
“No!” Mac thundered. “Why would you do this to me? Do you think it will be different? Do you think she has suddenly had a change of heart?”
They both averted their gazes, and he steeled his jaw. “I remember where my trunk went. I will see you around. Perhaps.” Or maybe I won’t.
Mac stormed out of the library and up the stairs to the room that his things had been placed in earlier. He was nearly blind with anger, but there was something else there, too. Something that he could not quite put his finger on. Betrayal, or hurt maybe. It was something.
“Oof!”
* * *
Mabel’s arms went up to her face instinctively as she bounced off the wall she had just run smack into. A bizarrely soft yet firm wall, and in a place that had previously been an open corridor. So, perhaps not a wall at all, but a…person?
Strong hands gripped her shoulders, righting her, and she rubbed her nose to dispel the pricking feeling that was bleeding up into her eyes and causing them to blur with tears. She took a fortifying breath and stepped away from the wall before stilling. She had run right into it—or him—and hadn’t collided with a face. Or a chin. This had to be a very, very tall wall. And this wall was most likely one of Charles’s guests.
“Forgive me,” Mabel said as she took another step away. She lowered her hands and found her vision cleared as she took in the monstrous man before her. It occurred to Mabel that this was what most women likely experienced, to gaze straight ahead and see a man’s chest, instead of directly into his eyes—or worse, over his head. She tilted her head back—another novelty—and her mouth dropped open at the handsome, yet vaguely familiar stranger. His face was cast in shadows from the dim corridor, the sun having reached the other side of the house by now.
It was too dark to see the man clearly—whoever was supposed to light the wall sconces likely had been delayed due to the extra bedchambers they suddenly needed to prepare. But something about the man tugged at her mind, something about his expression told her she knew him from somewhere.
He had a perfectly chiseled jaw, a straight nose, and eyes that were…dark? Perhaps. There was so much fire behind them that it was hard for Mabel to tell. She would have been embarrassed by her frank perusal if the giant opposite her wasn’t doing the very same thing to her.
She cleared her throat, giving the stranger a smile and hoping, with a small part of her, that he was neither dumb nor a servant. “You are one of my guests, I assume?” she said. That was a safe bet. Even the servants she considered guests. They were not coming to live forever, after all.
“I, um…” he stammered, before clearing his throat and hesitantly holding her gaze. “Yes, I suppose. I am a guest of Charles.” He spoke the words slowly, with calculation, and Mabel cocked an eyebrow.
“Are you well, sir? I apologize. I was checking the bedchambers and must have had my head in the clouds.”
“No. Yes. Well, er, I don’t know if I…” He trailed off, staring at her mutely. His direct gaze was unnerving, his mouth hanging open.
Well, great. This friend of Charles appeared to be in possession of a half-empty brain box.
She waited for him to continue, but he remained silent, staring. She clasped her hands. “Shall I escort you downstairs? I believe they are gathering in the library. Or perhaps you’d like to be directed to your room? It has been prepared by now.” She was doing her best impression of a put-together hostess and hoped the man wasn’t offended by her eagerness to deposit him somewhere. But the truth was she had piles of things to get done and standing around the corridor was not accomplishing any of them.
“No, I…I mean, I don’t think…” He cleared his throat. “I know my way,” he said quickly.
“Very well,” Mabel said, wondering if perhaps this was a servant and she had understood him wrong. “I shall see you for dinner then, I suppose.”
“Yes. Dinner.”
“Good day, sir.” Mabel backed away slowly, receiving his nod and then turning toward the stairs. Perhaps she’d been mistaken earlier. This visit felt more and more as though it was going to drag.
