even hear her. Her hands slipped from his sleeve as Graham took two steps into the hall. “I thought I told you that you were no longer welcome here.”
Edward chuckled. “You can relax, Sterling. I am not here for Amelia. Barrett, as you well know, is my business partner. We have matters to discuss.”
“Then discuss your matters with George Barrett and keep your distance from Miss Barrett.”
“The master of Winterwood Manor has spoken. Or should I say the master-to-be?” A shrug lifted Edward’s shoulder, and he shifted his gaze. “I see you brought Carrington along. Nicely played, sir. It is always wise to engage those who know the most about the object you are trying to secure.”
Amelia had her eyes on Edward, so she jumped a little when Graham took her elbow. “If you have business with Barrett,” he said, “I suggest you be on about it.”
“Oh, I’ll not keep you from the festivities, Sterling. I know all too well the desire of a man to be alone with the woman he loves.”
He nodded toward Amelia, his false smile making her blood run cold. “Give the Hammonds my best.”
Candlelight illuminated every corner of the Hammonds’ drawing room. Tiny flickers of light danced on every surface, from the oil paintings to the polished silver. And everywhere Graham looked, he encountered another stranger.
He knew Amelia, of course, as well as the Hammonds, Carrington, and his own brother. Beyond that, he was at a definite disadvantage. The cream of Darbury society—minus the Barretts—surrounded him, and he could not remember a single name. Yet they knew all about him. His occupation. His late parents and wife. His daughter. His betrothed. And all seemed to feel that the details of his life were their personal business.
With artful tact and quick words, Graham had escaped the clutches of two women, Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Trewell. Now, as he moved toward the door, their pointed questions rang in his memory. He would readily discuss the war or life at sea or whether he was enjoying his stay at Darbury. But he was not prepared—nor willing—to answer questions about Katherine or Lucy. And fifteen minutes of fending off such questions had left him wearier than a long watch in wartime.
If memory served him correctly, there was a nook with a window seat just down the hall, on the way to Mr. Hammond’s study. He would slip away there for a moment’s peace.
After inching along the wall and squeezing behind an oval-backed upholstered chair, Graham rounded the doorpost into the darkened corridor and quickly found the niche he remembered from when he and Amelia visited the vicarage a few days past. Cold air seeped in around the window’s cracked casing and cooled his agitation. He sank down on the window seat and stared out over the lawn, intent upon clearing his mind.
“Captain Sterling.” Graham started, then relaxed when he realized it was Amelia who’d found him—not Mrs. Bell or Mrs. Trewell. The faint moonlight falling through the window highlighted her features and glistened upon her hair.
“Whatever are you doing here?” she asked.
He stood slowly. “Hiding.”
“From what?”
He nodded in the parlor’s direction. “Don’t you mean from whom? You were right. These people are insatiable. I’ve never seen the like of it.”
A smile curved her lips. “Did I not warn you that it might be difficult?”
He straightened his waistcoat and nodded. “I have faced battle, cannon fire, and the sword, and believe me when I say that nothing has frightened me quite so much as Mrs. Bell.”
Even in the shadowed corridor, he could see amusement in her wide eyes. Her soft laugh was a soothing balm to his ruffled spirit. He stood a little taller when she was around him.
Blond curls danced about her face as she looked this way and that, then stepped into the nook where he stood. “I have a question I must ask you.”
The nearer she drew, the warmer his place of refuge seemed to grow. His pulse quickened. A darkened corridor. Hushed tones. The setting was almost . . . romantic.
His cravat seemed to tighten about his neck as he leaned in closer to listen. She spoke so softly he had to strain to hear. “Are you angry with me?”
“With you?” His voice was much louder than he intended. “Why would I be angry with you?”
“Shh!” She looked around to make sure no one was about. “It’s just that because of . . . that is to say, with Edward at Winterwood, and . . .”
He