Page 28 of Souvenir of Love

James studied his appearance in the mirrors. A tall slender man dressed in the height of fashion stared critically back at him. “Popinjay,” he muttered.

I am what you made me.

“I didn’t have any choice—what else could I have been?”

A man?the arched brows seemed to inquire.A man like Rafe Harcrest? A soldier, an adventurer, a businessman.

“He was a second son; he didn’t have my responsibilities.”

What responsibilities?The eyes swept his silken suit, his Holland linen.Seducing other men’s wives? Drinking till all hours?

“At least I don’t gamble.”

Only because you haven’t the blunt.

“I should have married for money.” He sighed, looking away.

If only he’d settled down with some wealthy heiress, it would have solved so many problems. His face and figure had attracted nearly as many as his future title. Why had he looked past the eager young things to dally with the safely marrieds? He’d never touched a well-bred virgin. Not until Elizabeth. When they’d been discovered, why hadn’t he declared for her, and forced Moreham’s hand?

Elizabeth was wealthy. She was titled. She was beautiful. Lord knew she was exciting. Why had he delayed?Because of Anne. Anne wants Elizabeth destroyed.

Looking again at his reflection, his eyes mocked him.You’ve ignored Anne’s wishes often enough when it suited you. What’s the real reason?

He raised his sword, whirled to his left, slashed up to the right, down to the left, across to the right, then lunged for his reflected heart. Steel tip quivered against polished glass. A scratch appeared.

I’d make a wretched husband.

It lengthened.

Moreham wouldn’t have me.

Stretched from reflected heart to reflected belly.

Elizabeth deserves better.

At the sound of clapping hands, James withdrew his sword. In the mirror, he could see his sister standing a short distance behind him. She looked like a malevolent angel on his shoulder.

“Congratulations, brother dear,” she said. “It appears you’ve bested a shadow of yourself.”

Dear Lord Dinsmore…

Too distant.Elizabeth crumpled the paper and pulled another sheet from the box on her desk.

Dear James.Was that too personal? She crumpled the sheet, pulled out another. Her lessons in deportment had never covered the proper address for a man with whom one had disgraced oneself at a ball. Her fingers tightened on her quill.

My dearest Lord Dinsmore.She stared at the neat script. Was he hers? Was he dear? She didn’t know what he was to her, or she to him.

All she knew was that she needed to contact him.

Good manners said she should inquire after his health, ask after his family, comment on the weather. How absurd! She could almost imagine words forming on the page.My dearest Lord Dinsmore, it was delightful to see you last evening…and to kiss you, and to feel your hands caress my skin.She inhaled deeply.

I enjoyed myself immensely…enjoyment, an understatement; she couldn’t begin to describe the sensations that had swept through her body.

I was quite devastated to leave…another understatement. Was there a word stronger than devastation, one that might describe the unutterable humiliation of being discovered half clad by the matrons of the ton? Of being forced to leave by the servants’ stairs and then having to face the justifiable fury of your brother?

I hope this letter finds you well.And that my brother doesn’t kill or maim you tomorrow at dawn.And that you are…What? she wondered. Pining for me? Wishing you could be with me? At least thinking of me? Was he thinking of her at all? Or was she just one night’s amusement? Was he laughing at her, perhaps with his friends, or worse, with Anne? Why hadn’t he come?

I have been out of sorts lately and my doctor has insisted that I remain at home, abed.I’m desperately unhappy, I’ve let everyone around me down, and I dare not show my face abroad for fear of being snubbed.