anywhere.”
“And you haven’t been to Crane House,” George said.
Anne’s stomach dropped. Dear God! Trust the boys to ask the obvious question. She and Mr. Parker-Roth had not yet concocted a plausible story—they hadn’t had time.
She flushed. And the time they’d had, they’d not spent wisely.
“I’ll let Anne tell you our story,” she heard Mr. Parker-Roth say.
What?
Everyone looked expectantly at her. Her brain—the part that wasn’t cursing a certain society gentleman—froze. “I, ah, met Mr. Parker-Roth at, er, Baron Gedding’s house party.”
She closed her eyes briefly. Why the hell had she said that? She never wanted to consider that horrible gathering again.
“At Baron Gedding’s?” Philip naturally sounded confused. “When were you at Baron Gedding’s, Anne?”
“A long time ago.” Now she would really sound like an idiot. “Right around the time you were born.”
“I remember,” Evie said. “I haven’t thought about it in years—I was only seven when you went. You did come back different.” She frowned. “But I’d have said you were rather sad and quiet. You should have been happy if you’d fallen in love.”
What could she say? She hadn’t fallen in love of course; she’d been unceremoniously flung out of it—or at least her youthful dream of it.
The days after the house party had been terrible. Her view of the world and her place in it had undergone a sea-change; there was no going back to the innocent, trusting girl she’d been.
At least her courses had come right after she’d got home, so she hadn’t had to worry there’d be a child as the result of her wrong headed encounter with Brentwood.
“And, you know,” Evie was saying, “I think you’ve been sad ever since.”
Sad? She might not have been merry as a grig, but she hadn’t been constantly Friday faced either.
Mr. Parker-Roth finally came to the rescue, in a manner of speaking. “Ah, but you see, we were far too young to consider marriage then—or, at least I was—I was only nineteen.”
And probably well on your way to being crowned King of Hearts, Anne thought— and not for your card-playing prowess.
“So we had to part.” He took Anne’s hand again. “And, being only nineteen, I’m afraid I was somewhat cavalier in my leave-taking. I believe I may have wounded Anne.”
Anne cringed at the romantic nonsense. George, gagging dramatically, hands around his throat, flopped backward on the couch.
Evie, however, swallowed the story as if it had been published by the Minerva Press. She sighed as she looked at Anne. “So that’s why you never showed particular interest in any of the gentlemen at home. You’ve been pining for your true love.”
Philip looked doubtful. “But for ten years, Evie? That’s a long time.”
“Not for true love,” Evie said.
Anne thought she might join George, who was now rolling his eyes and making quite amazing faces of disgust.
“Did you never see each other again till now?” Evie asked, clearly hoping they had.
“Well, I was out of the country a lot, you know,” Mr. Parker-Roth said, “hunting plants for my brother. But I believe we did meet again, didn’t we, dear heart?”
Think. Had she ever been away from home another time?
Yes—when Grandpapa had died.
She’d gone to Cambridge in Papa’s carriage with only a maid as a companion. Papa had left for some antiquity-rich patch of ground in Yorkshire before they’d got word. The twins had been sick, so for once Georgiana had stayed with her children.
“We did manage to see each other two years ago in Cambridge when my mother’s father passed away.”
She shouldn’t try to maintain this fiction, but she didn’t have much choice. Evie and the boys could never keep a secret, and while the twins probably wouldn’t have occasion to let the cat out of the bag in a socially damaging situation, Evie would. She only hoped no one from that damn house party was in Town. Who had been
“And you haven’t been to Crane House,” George said.
Anne’s stomach dropped. Dear God! Trust the boys to ask the obvious question. She and Mr. Parker-Roth had not yet concocted a plausible story—they hadn’t had time.
She flushed. And the time they’d had, they’d not spent wisely.
“I’ll let Anne tell you our story,” she heard Mr. Parker-Roth say.
What?
Everyone looked expectantly at her. Her brain—the part that wasn’t cursing a certain society gentleman—froze. “I, ah, met Mr. Parker-Roth at, er, Baron Gedding’s house party.”
She closed her eyes briefly. Why the hell had she said that? She never wanted to consider that horrible gathering again.
“At Baron Gedding’s?” Philip naturally sounded confused. “When were you at Baron Gedding’s, Anne?”
“A long time ago.” Now she would really sound like an idiot. “Right around the time you were born.”
“I remember,” Evie said. “I haven’t thought about it in years—I was only seven when you went. You did come back different.” She frowned. “But I’d have said you were rather sad and quiet. You should have been happy if you’d fallen in love.”
What could she say? She hadn’t fallen in love of course; she’d been unceremoniously flung out of it—or at least her youthful dream of it.
The days after the house party had been terrible. Her view of the world and her place in it had undergone a sea-change; there was no going back to the innocent, trusting girl she’d been.
At least her courses had come right after she’d got home, so she hadn’t had to worry there’d be a child as the result of her wrong headed encounter with Brentwood.
“And, you know,” Evie was saying, “I think you’ve been sad ever since.”
Sad? She might not have been merry as a grig, but she hadn’t been constantly Friday faced either.
Mr. Parker-Roth finally came to the rescue, in a manner of speaking. “Ah, but you see, we were far too young to consider marriage then—or, at least I was—I was only nineteen.”
And probably well on your way to being crowned King of Hearts, Anne thought— and not for your card-playing prowess.
“So we had to part.” He took Anne’s hand again. “And, being only nineteen, I’m afraid I was somewhat cavalier in my leave-taking. I believe I may have wounded Anne.”
Anne cringed at the romantic nonsense. George, gagging dramatically, hands around his throat, flopped backward on the couch.
Evie, however, swallowed the story as if it had been published by the Minerva Press. She sighed as she looked at Anne. “So that’s why you never showed particular interest in any of the gentlemen at home. You’ve been pining for your true love.”
Philip looked doubtful. “But for ten years, Evie? That’s a long time.”
“Not for true love,” Evie said.
Anne thought she might join George, who was now rolling his eyes and making quite amazing faces of disgust.
“Did you never see each other again till now?” Evie asked, clearly hoping they had.
“Well, I was out of the country a lot, you know,” Mr. Parker-Roth said, “hunting plants for my brother. But I believe we did meet again, didn’t we, dear heart?”
Think. Had she ever been away from home another time?
Yes—when Grandpapa had died.
She’d gone to Cambridge in Papa’s carriage with only a maid as a companion. Papa had left for some antiquity-rich patch of ground in Yorkshire before they’d got word. The twins had been sick, so for once Georgiana had stayed with her children.
“We did manage to see each other two years ago in Cambridge when my mother’s father passed away.”
She shouldn’t try to maintain this fiction, but she didn’t have much choice. Evie and the boys could never keep a secret, and while the twins probably wouldn’t have occasion to let the cat out of the bag in a socially damaging situation, Evie would. She only hoped no one from that damn house party was in Town. Who had been
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