How was he to eat with her so near? Or to think, to speak, to act as cordially as if this were an ordinary dinner amongst friends?
For a moment, it was as if time itself may have frozen. As if no one else was in the room but the two of them. The servants dancing attendance upon the meal faded away. Even Hastings and his wife, who were idly chatting with each other, ceased to matter.
Pippa bit her lower lip, then turned her attention to her plate, severing the connection. Just as well, he told himself, and reached for his wine.
“You never did say how the two of you first met,” Mrs. Hastings said abruptly, her attention diverted to Pippa. “I am curious.”
Pippa’s shoulders went rigid, every part of her going as still as if she were crafted of cold marble instead of silken, warm, perfumed flesh. Her heart may have been made of stone, but the rest of her was all too alive. He remembered, damn her.
His fingers curled around the stem of his glass with so much strength, he was surprised the whole bloody thing did not snap like a twig.
“I do not recall,” Pippa said.
His grip tightened. She did not recall? He would never forget.
“It was a country house party, was it not?”
The rumble of his voice, uninvited as it broke into the silence which had fallen, surprised even Roland. He had not intended to speak. Had not intended to remember. His Auntie Mildred on his father’s side, Countess of Baswell, had been holding one of her famed summer parties in Oxfordshire. Auntie Mil was an angel, and it remained a mystery to Roland how she could possibly have shared blood with a heartless bastard like his sire. But that was neither here nor there.
Three pairs of eyes were upon him now. Although he told himself he should not, he allowed his stare to meethers. Pippa’s delicately shaped brows were arched high, her expression one of caution.
Do not speak of that day, she seemed to say.
“It must have been a party I did not attend,” Mrs. Hastings offered.
“My aunt, Lady Baswell, held it at Stone Abbey,” he explained, though he could not seem to wrest his gaze from Pippa’s no matter how much his pride demanded he must. “I arrived late and happened upon a game of badminton. One of the gentlemen playing had injured his ankle, and I was invited to play in his stead. Mrs. Shaw was on the team opposite mine.”
And with his aid, his team, which had been losing terribly before his arrival, had very nearly trounced hers. He, who had never lost a competition of athleticism in his life, had been distracted when a sudden breeze had whipped her hat from her head, sending it sailing over the lawn. The sunlight had caught in the cinnamon and gold strands of her hair, distracting him just long enough to miss the shuttlecock.
From that moment on, he had taken to calling her Sunshine. Until he had received the letter informing him she would be marrying George Shaw. Time and distance had proven his enemy on that occasion.
“My team won that day,” she reminded him now, her voice cool.
They could not be further from that long-ago day, both in time and spirit. All the warmth and brilliant promise of that summer day had leached away.
“So it did.” He raised his half-empty wine glass to her in mock salute.
“The both of you should visit us in Derbyshire this summer,” Mrs. Hastings invited.
She was a lovely woman, kindhearted, an excellent hostess, and Hastings was desperately in love with her. She seemed equally besotted with her husband. Roland knew his friend had endured hell in prison, and he was happy for Hastings that he had found love again. Perhaps a bit envious, as well.
“Thank you for the invitation,” he told his hostess mildly, as if he intended to accept it.
In truth, he would sooner swallow a pail of nails. Nearly all his closest friends were hopelessly in love with their wives. And he was still seated across from the woman he could not seem to stop yearning for, regardless of how much loathing she directed toward him. For all that the physical distance was easily surmountable, the emotional distance was as vast as an ocean and every bit as impassible.
“I would love to, dearest,” Pippa said, with equal false intent, unless he missed his guess. “Only tell me when His Grace will be joining you so that our visits do not overlap. Tending to guests is such tedious work, and I should not like to make more for you.”
How clever of her to disguise her hatred of him in concern for her friend. Roland would have laughed had he not been aware doing so would only draw more undue attention upon him. All the promise of that day, that instant attraction they had shared, had been so easily undone. Now they were two broken people who little resembled the man and woman they had once been.
Why the hell did she still have such an effect upon him, after all that had happened?
“Is the enmity between the two of you mere rivalry born of the badminton game?” Mrs. Hastings asked, her voice deceptively innocent.
Roland stabbed his veal cutlet with more determination than necessary. The result was that some of the rich mushroom sauce went sloshing over the edge of his plate, marring the table linens. He could only hope no one had taken note. His table manners were not ordinarily this appallingly deficient.
“Northwich is one of the finest sportsmen of our time,” Hastings drawled. “I should think that comes with something of a competitive nature. Likely, he remains crestfallen over the loss.”
Roland had confided his feelings for Pippa to his friend. He knew that regardless of how besotted Hastings was with his wife, the man would never have betrayed his confidence. This interjection was an olive branch of sorts. Half apology, half attempt to steer the direction of their conversation.
