He knew the man, of course. In London, they moved in similar circles, belonged to some of the same clubs. He’d never taken much notice of the earl. Never had a reason. But now he found he loathed the man.
Ethan could see why women, why Francesca, would find Roxbury handsome. The earl was impeccably dressed, all in black. The dark color emphasized his unusual eyes—pale blue, almost watery in color. They gave him the appearance of looking through, rather than at, those he addressed. His brown hair was carefully styled to appear tousled, a look that contrasted with the stiff formal manner in which he held himself. He’d clasped his hands behind his back, but now that he brought them forward to take one of Francesca’s, Ethan noticed the man wore black leather gloves instead of the usual white silk deemed appropriate for formal affairs.
“Your name on the guest list must have escaped our notice.” Smoothly, Ethan took Francesca’s hands in one of his before Roxbury could grasp her with his leather-clad fingers.
Roxbury’s glacial stare locked with his. “Lord Winterbourne.”
“Lord Roxbury.” Ethan inclined his head.
At the rise in tension, Francesca recovered. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Lord Roxbury.”
“Really?” Roxbury said with raised eyebrows. “Quick-witted as you are—”
Francesca’s limp hand fisted closed in his, and Ethan felt her jerk.
The earl’s mouth twisted as he took in the action as well. “I would have thought you invited me intentionally.”
Francesca blinked in confusion. “Why would I do that?” Her hand gripped Ethan’s like a vise.
Roxbury reached for one of the chocolate tarts on the plate Ethan still held in his free hand. “Why, to gloat over your catch, of course.” He nodded to Ethan, laughed, but there was no amusement in the sound. He held up the tart. “You don’t mind, do you, Cesca?”
Ethan prickled at hearing the man address Francesca by a nickname. No other gesture belied their former intimacy as clearly.
Roxbury bit into the tart and said, “It’s not as if I’m depriving you.” His derisive gaze swept over her, and Ethan had to make a monumental effort not to slam his fist into those gleaming white teeth.
Ethan settled for placing the plate on the table and pulling Francesca closer. He understood exactly what had happened now. The idea of inviting her former intended would never have occurred to Francesca. It was not in her to lord her successes over others, and Roxbury knew that as well as Ethan.
But Lady Brigham, poor misguided woman that she was, had no such qualms. Still, the question remained: If Roxbury perceived the reason behind his invitation, why had he come? Curiosity? Or perhaps—Ethan scowled—perhaps the earl anticipated that his presence would upset Francesca.
The silence between them lengthened.
“Have you been in Hampshire long?” Francesca’s stab at conversation was almost as contrived as Roxbury’s smile.
“No.” Roxbury again bit delicately into the tart, careful not to allow any crumbs to fall on his clothing. “I came in this morning from Fountainview.”
“Oh!” She blinked. “Oh! But that’s wonderful. I had heard that you had lost the estate, that the mortgage—”
“Fountainview is doing well,” Roxbury interrupted. For the first time Ethan saw the man’s composure falter. His pale eyes went icy.
“Oh. Of course.” Francesca stumbled over the words, her face flushing with embarrassment. Ethan felt her hands tremble before she regained control of them. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
Roxbury made a cutting gesture. “Think nothing of it.” He shook his head at her, appearing disgusted. “You’ve always been one to—” With a grunt and a glance at Ethan, he shut his mouth, apparently thinking better of the criticism on his tongue.
Ethan wished the man had said it. He needed only half a reason to blacken both of those pale, water-colored eyes.
“Mypersonalaffairs are secure,” Roxbury said with a quick glance at Ethan. “Thank you for inquiring.”
There was another awkward silence, which neither Ethan nor Roxbury attempted to alleviate. Ethan stood stonily, Francesca’s hands in his, watching the earl transfer the half-eaten tart from one gloved hand to the other.
“And, forgive me for not knowing”—once again, Francesca broke the taut silence—“everything has been such a whirlwind of activity. Are you staying at Tanglewilde tonight?”
Ethan tensed, not having considered the possibility. Tanglewilde was not a large estate, but many of the guests had been given rooms for the evening. There was no way in Hell he’d allow Roxbury to sleep under the same roof as Francesca, this night or any.
Roxbury gave her a small, condescending smile. “No. I’m staying at the inn in that—er—rusticlittle village nearby.”
Ethan felt some of the tightness in Francesca’s hands ease. “And will you be in Hampshire long, or do you return to Surrey tomorrow?”
Roxbury set the chocolate tart down, rubbing his black-gloved fingers together to dislodge the nonexistent crumbs. He’d taken no more than two small bites, obviously not fond of the dessert. “I start for London in the morning. I have business in Town.”
