Free Vivian Roycroft by Mischief on Albemarle

heart? He couldn't, couldn't possibly. Too often Fitz had seen father and daughter together, their shared loving glances, their little touches and smiles. Mr. Wentworth treasured his daughter, had to want what was best for her. Couldn't know the ruination she faced.
    Perhaps yes. Perhaps a word in the paternal ear.
    "Lissie." Ponsonby yet again ; he had to suffer some sort of verbal incontinence. Someone needed to find him a better physician, needed to find a cure for that running on at the mouth. Or swaddle his mouth.
    Rustle rustle and thump, little noises circling the room as Crompton continued his search. No need to see that to make sense of the sounds; they'd all seen and heard Crompton on the hunt for a mislaid book before. Several droplets joined forces on a lower window pane, paused as if assessing their joint strength, then hurtled down the glass and vanished from view.
    Fitz finally had to shift. "What about Lissie?"
    Ponsonby laughed. "You really haven't been paying attention, have you? She's my bet. I shall marry Miss Lysandra McTaggart before the Season's end. And may the Lord have mercy upon my soul, because I shall then be surrounded by Scots, male and female, from morning 'til night."
    Another laugh. Most likely Caird; he'd think that line funny, since he put himself out to be the punch line so readily and well. Wearing that outlandish Highland costume to the assembly, forsooth.
    "Well, I can't see myself with Violetta." Caird's voice, as serious as a churchman. Perhaps it had been Crompton laughing. "I'd been considering Beryl, since her field seemed to be clear. But now…"
    They were no older than he. And considering marriage? Considering marriage to Beryl, Lissie, Violetta, the girls they called their friends? And writing off Beryl because…
    His stomach twisted as if he'd eaten something vile. The thought of her winding up with Cumberland was repellent. But the thought of her winding up with Caird was little better.
    A push on his shoulder. Fitz whipped about, and Crompton fell back a step, his easy smile fading and guileless blue eyes starting open.
    "Not trying to attack you, Fitz. But I've searched the room and the only place my book can be is underneath you."
    Bluster him. Fitz yanked out the offending tome and thrust it toward its dastardly owner, jerking himself to his feet with the motion and heading for the door.
    "Take it and be gone, knave. It's numbed my physique's netherland for too long. And allow me to return your sitting room, as well," he added over his shoulder.
    Fitz closed the door on his old schoolmates' laugher. He'd lost that round, fair and square. And where the dribble had he left his hat and cape?
    ****
    With Fitz gone, the morning dragged down to grey weariness. The rain pattered on, tapping against the window panes as if begging to come in and finish off the confused muddle of her day, and Paul slipped quietly around the sitting room lighting candles and again tending the fire. Beryl's hands moved automatically, the needle sliding in and out of the primrose silk, pink thread building a tiny, blowsy rose within the embroidery hoop's confinement. With all the work she'd get done on this neckline today, the reworked opera gown would be ready for the weekend's entertainments; less formal, a bit more homey, more the sort of thing to be worn to card parties and soirees. After all, she'd only attended the opera once; no need to keep a gown dedicated to an event she'd rather not attend ever again.
    Whether she'd be ready for the weekend, though — that was another matter. It still stunned her that she'd actually done it. She'd actually sent Fitz away, something she'd thought she'd never find the strength within her to manage, and now it felt as if the sun would never return, the sitting room never brighten again. But that was the way it had to be. She had to get over him and reconcile her heart to another man, and the very thought sent her spirits plummeting down to join the rainy