“Yes.”
“Then we shall go now,” Tilly decided. “Together.”
“I cannot ask that of you,” Pippa protested, knowing her friend had already been through enough.
She had lost her husband to prison, and when he had returned, she had almost lost him to the bitterness and resentment he had clung to as a result of his mistreatment. As a result of what George and Longleigh had conspired to do to him.
It was terrible.
Too terrible to contemplate.
Unforgivable.
“You did not ask,” said her friend sternly. “And I insist. You are as dear to me as a sister, Pippa.”
She was humbled by her friend’s generosity of heart and spirit. “I do not know what to say.”
“Say yes, and we shall go,” Tilly prodded. “And then, we shall return to our tea, and all this business will be at an end for you.”
Pippa nodded. “Yes. Let us go to Scotland Yard and take the letters.”
She was not certain it would be the end. But she knew that regardless of what was to come, surrendering those letters—even if they incriminated her husband and would bring scandal and shame upon her—had to be done.
* * *
If Roland had possessedan inkling that Pippa would be present at Haddon House for dinner that evening, he never would have accepted the damned invitation. He had supposed himself to be the only guest when Hastings had issued the invitation as they had met briefly earlier that day at the Black Souls Club.
“Nothing formal,” Hastings had assured him. “You know I can’t abide by ceremony. I am a damned poor host.”
Hastings was the bastard son of the former Duke of Longleigh, and although his mother had been a gentlewoman, he had experienced a varied upbringing that left him more at home with the common than the lords. Roland did not mind, for he had never felt as if he were a part of the aristocracy himself. Not truly. Society accepted him now, but mostly because he was a duke. Many of them still whispered about him. Whispered about his mother, his heritage. More than once, he had heard the despicable wordsavageuttered in a ballroom when a small-minded lord or lady had believed him out of earshot. He was no fool.
But he may as well be one, for the way he could not seem to keep his gaze from wandering to Pippa now.Mrs. Philippa Shaw, he reminded himself sternly. A woman who had thrown him over for a lying swindler capable of terrible crimes. He should feel nothing for her.
Certainly, he ought not to find himself admiring the manner in which the lamp glow brought out the burnished streaks in her chestnut hair. Nor ought he to admire the slender column of her throat, the sweet Cupid’s bow of her upper lip. The way her tongue traced over a bead of red wine which had lingered there…
Torture.
He was torturing himself. Hastings should have warned him she would be present, damn it. This was insupportable. Unacceptable.
“It shall be summer soon,” Mrs. Hastings was saying brightly. “We are hoping to return to Derbyshire.”
“I expect to go to the country as well,” he forced himself to say politely, before reaching for his own glass of wine.
Was it his imagination, or did Pippa’s hazel gaze linger on him more than required for politeness? And why would it? She had made her poor opinion of him clear. On more than one occasion.
“And you, Mrs. Shaw?” Hastings asked Pippa. “How shall you and your daughter be spending the summer?”
Pippa was pale, her fingers—delicate and finely formed as the rest of her—toying with the stem of her wine goblet. “I have yet to decide. It is possible we may visit my brother in Suffolk. I have not seen Worthington in several years.”
More silence. Therelevéarrived,côtelletes de veu en caisseand Anna potatoes, their rich and sumptuous scents filling the air. Servants busied themselves with the presentation of the course on the pristine table linens. Everyone seemed on edge. He could not help wondering what the reason was for his invitation. Surely it was not a coincidence that Pippa was present as well. The unsettled expression on her face each time their gazes connected suggested she had been no more aware of his attendance than he had been of hers.
Their friends were conspiring against them.
Why? Did they expect this dinner to forge adétente? If so, they were destined for disappointment, that ever-present bitterness of life. Pippa Shaw hated him more now than she ever had.
He might have asked, but he must be content to fill his belly for now. No need to draw unnecessary attention, or to further the already biting sting of the tension in the room. As he forked up a bite of veal cutlet, his gaze somehow flitted to her again. Her lashes were low, shielding much of her eyes, and yet, their stares met and clung.
He felt the effect of that look like a jolt of electricity. As surely and potently as if he had touched her. He forced himself to chew. The herbs and earthy flavor of mushroom sauce ought to have been sufficient to produce delight, and yet it may as well have been sawdust in his mouth.
