It was different between them now, of course. It wouldn’t ever be the same as it once had been, but it wasn’t meant to be, and this… well, this would do.
Yes, he could get used to this. It was rather nice, really, having a grown-up sister.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ve only ever wanted your happiness, Hattie.”
“I know. I’ve always known that, even when I was angry with you. You really are the most excellent brother, James.”
“I am, indeed.” He gave her an awkward pat. “Now, off to bed with you.”
“Yes, alright. Goodnight, James.”
“’Night, Hattie.”
It was time he went to his own bed, but he remained where he was for some time, staring into the fire until it burned down to the embers, and thinking about blue eyes, water droplets falling from fingertips, and ladies who’d never learned to waltz.
“Areyou certain I can’t assist you with anything, my lord?”
James turned away from the staircase, biting back an irritable grunt. That was the third time Watkins had asked him that question, and the butler was watching him as if he were a thief with his eye on the silver teaspoons.
He’d come downstairs disgracefully early this morning. Now he waspacing from one end of the entryway to the other, and whirling toward the staircase at the slightest sound from above— the squeak of a floorboard, or the echo of footsteps in the corridor.
To an uninformed observer, he might appear a trifle suspicious.
Perhaps he should have waited outside Euphemia’s bedchamber door, instead of lingering in the entryway, but it had seemed a bit, er… predatory to pounce upon a lady as soon as she ventured a toe outside her bedchamber.
It wasn’t as if he werestalkingher.
He simply wished to keep his personal matters private, that was all, and that meant not waking either his aunt or his sister. They always slept late in the morning after a ball. As long as they weren’t disturbed, they wouldn’t be downstairs for hours yet.
Which was precisely what he wanted. If either of them knew what he was about, he’d never hear the bloody end of it.
And it wasn’t as if itmeantanything.
A gentleman might do a lady a good turn without it meaning a single, blessed thing, but there was no sense in trying to persuade Harriett or his aunt of that. They’d immediately assume he was enamored of Miss Templeton, and then he’d never have another moment of peace.
Him, enamored of Euphemia Templeton. The very idea was absurd. He was no more enamored of her than a schoolboy was of his headmaster.
Which was to say, not at all enamored.
At best, he and Miss Templeton tolerated each other. At their worst, they were like two enraged cats trapped together in a burlap sack, hissing and clawing at each other.
What, then, did he think he was doing? Euphemia Templeton wasn’t any concern of his.
It didn’t make any sense that he’d been awake for the better part of last night, haunted by the expression on her face when she’d fled the ballroom, the mocking laughter of thetonin her wake.
It was just that she’d looked so… desolate, so defeated, her blue eyes full of dark shadows. Thetondidn’t make it easy for her to be in London. From what Harriett and his aunt had told him, they hadn’t made it easy for any of the Templeton sisters, but her younger sisters were all countesses now. They had husbands to defend them from the sharpest cuts of the gossips’ razored tongues.
Euphemia didn’t have anyone, aside from his aunt and his sister.
Bad odds, that. Not at all sporting.
It couldn’t be pleasant for her to have to overhear their whispers or see their sneering faces, yet she’d come to London to help Harriett, all the same.
Which was excessively foolish of her, of course. Harriett didn’t need her help. Miss Templeton would much better have stayed home, but she was here now, and he… well, he could spare part of his morning for a lady who’d sacrificed months of her time, as well as her peace of mind to help his sister.
But it didn’t mean anything. Of course, it didn’t. It meant less than nothing.
He resumed his pacing— back and forth, the weight of Watkins’ increasingly baffled gaze following his progress, the tap of his boots against the marble floors far louder than they should be, louder than they’d ever been before, as if a bloody horse were galloping from one end of the entryway to the other.
