Page 66 of Souvenir of Love

She scowled at him. “I simply found myself thinking about her and wondering how she was faring alone.”

“Of course,” he said in a voice that made it clear that he didn’t believe her. “To set your mind at ease, my sister knows better than to give credence to a piffle of gossip that might reach her ears…”

Elizabeth bit back the retort that sprang to her lips: that Anne knew better than to believe the truth of the gossip that circulated through the ton, since she’d spawned so much of it herself.

“If Anne suspects some strange rumor she hears is true, she will take pains to seek out proof before putting faith in the story. Moreover, it is unlikely anyone will discover we have been in France together. You have taken pains to make everyone believe you are at Hartsdale, while I have spread rumors that I am wandering abroad, disconsolate over the loss of you and”—his fingers glanced his scar—“and of course, my disfigurement.”

Elizabeth heard it again—the airily dismissive tone he’d used in the coach when he’d discussed their supposed wedding. She wouldn’t pursue his feelings for her, but she wondered how he truly felt about the scar. “You aren’t disfigured, you know.”

He shrugged. “I haven’t given it much thought.”

“You aren’t,” she persisted.

He glanced at her curiously. “Are you one of those women who find my scar wickedly attractive? A dangerous angel, as one particularly amorous lady described me?”

“If you’re trying to impress me with your adventures since our infamous encounter several months ago, you needn’t bother.” Elizabeth didn’t add that it wasn’t his face or figure that had drawn her to him, and that no matter what he looked like, she’d always… She refused to allow herself to continue along this line of thought. “A dangerous angel, how amusing. Certainly not the term I would use.”

“And what term would you use to describe me, Elizabeth?” His voice was subtly less certain.

“To tell you the truth,” she deliberately echoed his earlier words, “I haven’t given it much thought.”

“Liar,” he murmured softly.

“No more than you,” she murmured back.

“As for Anne being alone,” he said, abruptly steering the conversation back to its original course, “let me set your mind at ease. Our cousin Agatha is staying with her and she has a suitor who has been dancing vigorous attendance upon her.”

Anne glancedabout the fussily appointed parlor of Lady Morton’s London town house to see if any of the other couples engaged in cards, backgammon, or checkers might be paying attention to her conversation with Sir Edmund. “Tell me,” she asked in her most casual tone, “how you came to hear this story about Moreham’s involvement in trade.”

“Oh, I didn’t simply hear it, my dear.” He chuckled, moving his checker. “I saw the fellow in the silk quarter of Lyon. Haggling like a fishwife over bolts of silk.”

She studied the board. With one move she could easily take two of his men, but that would shorten the game and possiblySir Edmund’s temper. She wanted to keep him talking. Haggling and fishwife were not words Anne had ever thought she’d hear in association with the character of Rafe Harcrest, Earl of Moreham. She moved her checker into an exposed position.

“You should be more careful, Lady Anne.” He waggled a plump finger at her. “Now I fear I must be most ungentlemanly and take your piece.”

“How could I not see that?” She flipped open her fan and fluttered it, as if covering her embarrassment. “But I was so distracted by the notion of the earl haggling. Are you certain he was not purchasing silks for his wife?”

“This was long before he married.”

“His stepmother Louisa, perhaps?”

“Haven’t seen the woman, I admit, but I think I’d have heard if she were the size of ten or eleven women.”

“He was buying that many bolts of silk? Mightn’t they have been for decorating purposes?” Anne thought of the renovations Rafe had done to his London home, Moreham Hall, last winter, the renovations she’d thought had been in preparation for his marriage to her. With difficulty, she stifled her sudden urge to topple the checkerboard. She slid a checker into a safe position.

“Clever girl.” Sir Edmund smiled across the board at her. “It was the wrong sort of material for upholstery or drapes.”

“You seem to know a great deal about fabrics.”

As she hoped, he took her words as a compliment and continued talking. “I have been doing some renovations at Hamcroft, of the private rooms.” He paused, a sly smile coming into his pale-blue eyes. “I’m thinking that a wife would want a less masculine, less Spartan decor.”

Anne fluttered her fan; she was having trouble imagining that any aspect of Sir Edmund’s life might be Spartan. “Indeed.”

“Indeed,” he repeated with emphasis.

“And what has brought on your sudden desire for matrimony, Sir Edmund? I had heard tell you were a confirmed bachelor.”

He leaned back in his chair, folding his heavy hands over his stomach. “Up until a year ago, I, too, believed myself to be a confirmed bachelor, content in my solitary ways. But then I attended the wedding of my favorite nephew, Rupert Fenwinkle. He asked me to stand up with him, his father having passed away of a winter vomiting sickness. I found myself strangely moved when I saw his bride, Annabella Norcroft, coming down the aisle toward him. And it seemed to me when the minister spoke the words of the ceremony, binding those two young people together, that I was hearing them for the first time. I resolved there and then that I should be married, too.” He unfolded his hands and leaned forward. “It would be selfish of me not to share all that I have to offer with the right woman.”