“And, I think, made a few new friends.” He glanced at Isabella. Seeking approval?
“I told you they’d like you,” Isabella said. “You’re all the same. Hardheaded and—”
“In love.” Rowan quirked a brow.
Lottie gasped.
Anything Isabella had been about to say caught in her throat.
“I must be going,” Lottie said, “but I venture to guess I’ll have the opportunity to know you better in the future, Mr. Trent. If you’re lucky.”
He nodded as Lottie practically ran to Andromeda across the lawn where they bent their heads toward one another, lips flying behind gloved hands.
What were they saying? That old itch returned, that need to know.
But she would not perish from not knowing, so she fought the impulse and searched the crowd for her next destination. Without a clear one in mind, she wandered from group to group. Rowan followed. Hopefully, he’d become bored and wander off.
But he didn’t. He stayed right behind her or right beside her, and by the time she spotted Lady Macintosh and Lady Templeton near a small fountain in the middle of a box hedge, she’d introduced him to at least half of the party’s guests.
“You’ll want to run off now,” Isabella said.
“No, I do not think I will want that.”
“Where I go next is a place no bachelor willingly treads.”
“I need not fear, then. I no longer consider myself a bachelor.”
She choked.
He patted her back as she gasped for air. “Do you need a drink?”
“No. A bug. Just flew right in. Gone now.”
“Then shall we continue on?”
“Let it be known—I warned you.” No man was ever quite as ready as they anticipated for the library ladies. She felt more than a little wicked by the time she stood before them. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
Lady Macintosh and Lady Templeton pursed their lips, met Rowan’s gaze, then examined his body on a downward trajectory, pausing somewhere near his hips and thighs before finishing at his boots, sharing a look and turning to Isabella.
“I’ve no idea,” Lady Macintosh said, “what sort of fish you’ve caught or even that you’d gone fishing, but I must say… well done.”
“Reminds me of the count in that one Italian book.” LadyTempleton tapped her chin, pursed her lips to the side. “I can’t remember the title. But that one scene in the confessional is impossible to forget.”
Lady Macintosh gasped. “Oh, my yes. You’re quite right. He’s exactly what I pictured. Such a nefarious gentleman.”
Their attention settled on Rowan once more.
He squirmed, leaned close to Isabella, and whispered, “This is not quite what I had in mind. I thought they’d scrutinize me socially. Or morally. But if I didn’t know better, I’d think they were sizing me up in a rather…carnalmanner.”
“They are.”
Lady Templeton chuckled. “Who are you? Or should we call you Count?”
“I’m certain that’s not how introductions are made,” Rowan said. “I’m no expert, but—”
“It appearsyouare the social snob, Mr. Trent.” Isabella nudged him closer to the ladies. “Marchioness of Templeton, Viscountess Macintosh, this is Mr. Rowan Trent, Admiral Garrison’s…” This always tripped her. Mrs. Garrison called him son, but Rowan called her aunt, and—
“Son,” Rowan said. “Adopted.”
