“Megs behave,” the bird chirped, then whistled.
Rosamund carefully removed one small oval nut and offered it to the parrot, who gleefully took the object in its beak. Stuart was distinctly aware that he was being ignored, and the novel sensation wasn’t a pleasant one.
Rosamund trailed an elegant finger over the bird’s head. “Good parrot, Megs.”
And then, at last, ever so slowly, she turned the full force of her attention upon him, her dark stare burning into his. “Good afternoon, Camden. I cannot think of a single reason you would have for paying a call upon me.”
No curtsy. Nary a smile. Not aYour Grace, and most definitely not a hint of welcome. Stuart wasn’t certain what he had expected.
“Rosamund,” he greeted in turn, offering a slight bow. “It is good to see you.”
She arched a brow. “Is it?”
Heat crept up his throat.
“Of course,” he fibbed.
She pursed her lips. “I suppose we should sit. Comfort is important when one is being lied to, I find.”
Her observation was sharper than any blade.
But he was at her mercy, and far more than she yet realized.
He inclined his head. “As you wish, madam.”
“I’ve called for a tray of tea as well,” she said coolly before swishing past him.
She moved to the seating area across the room and gingerly settled on a settee, smoothing her seafoam-green skirts. He followed, folding his taller frame into a narrow chair nearby, sparing her his proximity on her seat even as part of him was tempted to do otherwise. Belatedly, it occurred to him that her navy bodice bore the outline of gold scales as if she were a mermaid, the entire affair accented with seafoam ribbon on the sleeves and decolletage.
The fanciful dress, so incongruous with what he knew of her, took him by surprise.
“I must thank you for accepting my call,” he forced himself to say, though they were both more than aware that she had kept him waiting, in the presence of the insult-wielding parrot, for half an hour.
“It was unexpected.” She watched him, unsmiling, so very poised. “And not entirely pleasant, if I am honest.”
Her forthright nature was something he recalled well. But what disturbed him now was that he also remembered her tears, the accusation in her sharp, dark eyes. He remembered how shattered she had looked, like a hand mirror that had been dropped upon a stone hearth.
Stuart brushed aside the memory as he winced. “I’ll admit that I had harbored some hope that the intervening years might have rendered you more amenable to a tête-à-tête with me.”
She laughed then, the sound throaty and pleasant and full, before her levity faded, and she continued regarding him with her unnerving gaze. “I regret to report that they have not.”
God. She would not make this easy on him, then. Why had he supposed she would?
He gripped the arms of his chair. “I am sorry for that, Rosamund.”
“As am I,” she said, unsmiling. “Actually, I’m sorry for a great many things.”
“A great many things,” the parrot chimed in, apparently having finished with its pistachio.
Rosamund’s searing stare made his necktie feel more like a noose. He turned his attention to the African grey for a moment to find the bird was watching him as closely as its mistress was.
“Gormless shite,” the bird repeated, before issuing another whistle.
He clenched his jaw and snapped his attention back to Rosamund. “It would seem the bird has made his opinion of me quite clear.”
“Heropinion,” Rosamund corrected. “Megs is a female parrot. She was also quite bonded to her former master, who was a sea captain, hence some of her more…colorful vocabulary.”
He was suddenly dying to know how an heiress dressed as a mermaid had acquired a sea captain’s foul-mouthed parrot, but the question would have to wait. He had far more pressing matters to attend at the moment, none of which were pleasant.
