Page 23 of A Rogue Worth the Risk

Three Days Later—Early Afternoon

The next three days passed in a blur of house party activities—some almost enjoyable but most tedious in their ridiculousness and predictability. The single day of pleasant weather Caspian had enjoyed in the gardens with Corinna had ceded to non-stop, pouring rain. Not unexpected in January in England but rather inconvenient for strolls, carriage outings, or riding.

The guests, including him, had become restless, bored, and on occasion, short-tempered. Tonight’s entertainment was to include performances by anyone who claimed a musical talent—and, God save him—many who couldn’t carry a tune in a teacup. Past experience had taught Caspian to expect an excruciating two or three hours with a few tolerable interludes interspersed.

He wouldn’t be surprised if many house guests didn’t arrive slightly tipsy in order to bear the auditory onslaught. Because he limited his consumption of alcohol, he wouldn’t have that luxury.

Why Lady Osborne had thought it a splendid idea to host a two-week-long house party in January was anyone’s guess. That he’d agreed to attend suggested he was either dicked in the knob or lonelier than he’d ever admit.

Normally, such pastimes were conducted in the summer months when outdoor activities provided numerous amusements or during Christmastide when the holiday added a degree of excitement.

Despite ordering himself not to, he again searched the various rooms for Corinna. They’d had no more private interludes, and he had yet to tell her about the fire that had forever altered his life.

Caspian couldn’t explain why, and neither did he examine the complex and irrational reasons behind the desire, but he wanted to tell Corinna that night. Wanted her to know before a self-appointed pillar of society decided to impart their biased wisdom—all on the pretext of preventing Corinna from making a colossal mistake, of course.

The presence of her brother and sister-in-law in the gardens the other day had made sharing the tale impossible. Besides, Brockman already knew most of the disagreeable details, and his bride didn’t need to hear the rest of the unpleasant story.

In a few short days, Corinna Brockman had wiggled her way into Caspian’s thoughts and even into his dreams. Mayhap into his heart, though that notion terrified him more than jumping through that upper-story window to escape the raging inferno behind him.

When Caspian entered a room, the first thing he did was search for Corinna. When she wasn’t present, he pondered where she was and what she was doing. She lit every room with her vivacious presence and clever wit, and something warm and perplexing welled up within him every time he saw her. Or thought of her. Which, truth be told, was far too often to dismiss as a passing fancy.

As he trod down the corridor, laughter carried from the drawing room. Manchester, Marquess of Sterling, stepped from the room and grinned in welcome.

“Strathmore.”

“Sterling.”

Brushing his hand over his jaw, Sterling cast a bemused glance over his shoulder then grimaced. “If I had to listen to another minute of intelligence-robbing drivel those young women call conversation...” He shook his head. “I’m off to the billiards room. As a brisk round of boxing or a vigorous ride is out of the question, I’ll have to settle on the satisfying crack of billiard balls.”

Caspian well understood his friend’s conundrum.

“Up for a game or two of billiards, Strathmore? Several of the chaps including Bixley, Hythe, and Silverton have already made their escapes.”

The invitation tempted, but Caspian hadn’t seen Corinna today. She’d not come down to breakfast nor participated in the positively yawn-inspiring poetry reading mid-morning. Lord Bracegirdle’s sonorous snores began ten minutes into “Lady of the Lake” by Sir Walter Scott.

How a person could sleep through what sounded like a hippopotamus eating a lion or the reverse, unless one was stone-deaf, stretched the imagination.

Caspian was positive the peculiar sounds that had come from Mrs. Pennyflower’s vicinity constituted a severe digestive complaint. Too many prunes for breakfast, he’d be bound. The strained expressions on those seated in close proximity to her, and the swift appearance of fans and handkerchiefs over noses, had confirmed his suspicions.

Brilliant of Corinna to have avoided that unpleasantness.

However, when she hadn’t been at luncheon, he considered approaching Mercy Brockman and inquiring about Corinna’s whereabouts. But that might’ve—would’ve—given an impression Caspian didn’t want to have to explain to Ronan.

Or to yourself.

“I might take you up on that offer, Sterling.”

“Excellent.” Sterling nodded as he pulled his sage-green and ivory waistcoat into place. His expression grew serious. “I’m glad you came. I’ve not heard a single disparaging whisper.”

Caspian skewed his mouth up on one side. “Because anyone stupid enough to besmirch me within hearing distance of you would have their ears seared with a polite but blistering set down.”

He knew his friend well.

“That is true.” Sterling’s low chuckle echoed in the corridor. “Do come ’round to the billiards room.” With a casual wave, he ambled away.

Billiards always proved an amicable way to pass an hour or two when one was bored to one’s eyeballs. If Caspian didn’t find Corinna, he’d join his friend.

A few moments later, he entered the library and, hands on his hips, glanced around, somewhat surprised to find it empty. In harmony with the wind and rain pounding the house, a fire crackled merrily in the hearth. Cozy and warm, yes, but not what he desired.