A Lady Never Tells(87)

“There are a number of things that it is better that a lady not know.” On that foreboding note, Miss Dalrymple applied herself once again to her fish.

After supper, they retired to the smaller, less formal drawing room as they usually did after the meal, but here they found themselves even more at a loss without Royce’s presence. Without him there to countermand her, Miss Dalrymple managed to quash every interesting topic of conversation, as well as any suggestion of a more lively activity than playing a quiet hand of whist.

When at last Miss Dalrymple decreed that it was the proper time for young ladies to retire, the sisters trooped up to bed without a single demurral. Mary went into her bedroom and started to undress. However, after she had finished her evening’s toilette, she was still not sleepy. It was lonelier here, she thought, not sharing a room with Rose.

For a moment she hesitated, then slipped next door and softly opened Rose’s door to peer inside. It was dark and Rose was already in bed, so Mary withdrew and returned to her own bed. After a few minutes of tossing and turning, however, she got up and belted on her dressing gown to go down to the library for a book. Lily had declared the books here only minimally more interesting than the ones in the London house, but perhaps a nice dull tome would put her to sleep.

Mary eased out into the hallway, not wanting to awaken Miss Dalrymple, who considered a good night’s rest one of the cornerstones of a young lady’s preparation for the rigors of a Season and had countless stories of one young lady or another who had suffered a breakdown in the midst of her come-out because of exhaustion brought on by the constant round of parties and social events. There was no sign of life from Miss Dalrymple’s room.#p#分页标题#e#

Mary glanced in the other direction, toward Royce’s bedchamber. No light showed beneath his door, and she wondered if he had not yet returned home. Had he indeed gone down to the tavern, as Camellia had surmised? Was he still there? Was he flirting—or worse—with some tavern wench?

She told herself that she did not care. If he preferred an evening at the tavern to one with her, it was perfectly all right. She had no claim on Royce, and she refused to be jealous. But she could not deny a stab of pain beneath her heart at the thought of him flirting with another woman. Was it all the same to him whether he flirted with her or with some girl in a tavern?

Mary pushed that lowering thought out of her head as she tiptoed along the corridor and down the stairs. Her candle provided enough light to see where she was going, but she noticed when she reached the first floor that the sconces were still burning along the corridor leading to the library. At the end of the hallway, light spilled out of a doorway.

She stopped outside the library, looking down the hall. The light came from the smoking room, and she had no doubt that Royce was there. Mary hesitated, knowing that she should get a book and return to her room. But a small voice in her head urged her toward the smoking room. If she was honest, wouldn’t she admit that she had come downstairs less to get a book than to see if Royce had come home?

Abandoning the library, Mary continued to the open doorway. As she had suspected, Sir Royce was inside, sprawled in one of the heavy leather wingback chairs, his booted legs crossed negligently at the ankles, a bottle of port on the floor beside the chair and a glass in his hand. His dark gold hair was mussed, and his jacket was off, his cravat gone, and the top tie of his shirt undone.

“Marigold Bascombe.” Royce grinned and pushed himself to his feet, wobbling a little as he swept her a bow.

“Sir Royce.” Mary took a step into the room, setting her candle down on the small table near the door. “I was getting a book from the library, and I saw your light.”

“My good fortune. Come in, sit down. Would you like a drink? No, that would not be proper, would it? Perhaps I could find some ratafia.” He glanced around vaguely.

“That’s quite all right. I’m not thirsty.”

“Neither am I.” He grinned, plopping back down into his chair. “But that detail doesn’t stop me from drinking.”

“I can see.”

“Oh, dear. Do you disapprove, Miss Marigold?”

“Please stop calling me that ridiculous name.”

“But it is your name,” he pointed out. “I rather like it.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “You’re drunk.”

“You do disapprove.” He fetched up a lugubrious sigh.

Mary could not repress a chuckle. He looked adorably boyish with his hair mussed, a lock curling down across his forehead and falling into his eye. She could picture him as a boy, clothes torn, hair every which way, in trouble for having gotten into some scrape or another.