Page 29
ELEVEN
Still in Templetons’ library
Several tense tick-tocksof the mantel clock later
Foldingher arms tightly to her chest, Roxina pressed her lips together against the unladylike oath she longed to hurl at Shelby Tellinger. If she were a man, she’d punch his arrogant face and rearrange that perfectly straight nose for calling her a liar.
How dare he humiliate her in front of her dearest friend and Jackson Matherfield?
How odd to come upon Aubriella and Matherfield in the library.
Roxina knew full well that Aubriella had no liking for Jack. And that twaddle about teaching her hazard? Aubriella was a dab hand at the game. She didn’t need any instruction or practice.
No, something was too smoky by far.
Regardless, Roxina would deal with that business later.
She eyed Shelby from beneath her lashes.
Right now, she must face Shelby Tellinger, more infuriated than she’d ever witnessed him before. He’d been his usual standoffish, brooding self this morning. This evening, however, something had sent him into a proper froth.
Taking three deep breaths and counting to five with each inhalation and exhalation, as she taught herself when Mitchel was in one of his rages, she brought her racing heart and pulse under control. Raised voices, particularly males, nearly always caused her extreme anxiety. It brought back terrifying memories of her father shouting at Mama.
Mustering her equanimity and forcing calmness to her voice, she met Shelby’s infuriated glacial gray eyes.
“I told you, Shelby. I don’t know where Mitchel is. You, above all people, are aware he does not include me in his confidence. My brother lives his life, and I live mine. Actually, I’m surprised you don’t know where he’s off to. I thought you were chums and shared everything.”
Her sarcasm earned her another eviscerating scowl.
“Mitchel was remarkably closemouthed about his holiday plans. I presume he intended…” Shelby rubbed a long finger beneath his nose because no doubt what he’d intended to say was not meant for delicate ears. “Well, that he wanted seclusion and privacy.”
She rested a hip on the sofa’s arm. “Mitchel meant to engage in a season of holiday cheer and whoring?”
He didn’t appear shocked at her crude question, so then why pretend it wasn’t true?
Mitchel was the worst sort of profligate scoundrel.
Angling her head, she narrowed her eyes. “Or, perhaps, cuckolding some poor fellow.”
“I am not his keeper.” Tellinger laced his fingers behind his back, but his granite jaw belied his false tranquility. “Neither am I his confessor or conscience.”
Roxina had never seen him in such a state. Like a caged lion or panther, ready to spring upon its prey. Perched as she was on the sofa’s arm—mostly because her too-small second-hand shoes pinched her toes, and her feet were killing her—he seemed taller than his six feet, two inches as he towered above her.
“Well, I certainly am none of those either,” she retorted with equal rancor.
Suddenly weary, she placed a palm against her forehead where a niggling ache portended a migraine if she didn’t promptly find her bed. “I think he left around the thirteenth, but I cannot be sure. He rarely sleeps at the Gloucester Street house, and I only see him in passing every couple of weeks or so. I noticed his bedchamber door ajar, and clothing was strewn about as if he’d packed in haste.”
“Blast him to Hades.” Shelby paced away five steps, then stamped back to glower down at her. “I must find him.”
Roxina sighed and permitted her shoulders to slump an inch. “Why? What has he done that has caused you, his dearest friend, to turn on him?”
Did she really want to know?
“I am not his dearest friend. I watch him closely because he is an untrustworthy blackguard, and that is better done by spending time with him.”
“Oh.” The breath left Roxina’s lungs in a rush.
What did she say to that confession?
