to hear the edge in his friend’s voice and see the buried sadness in his gaze.
“My father married at the advanced age of forty-one,” he said. “With such an example, there seems little hurry for me to marry, regardless of what my mother believes. It will be years before I put out the word that I’m on a bride hunt. Besides,” he continued, “the thought of courting some girl fresh from the schoolroom holds little appeal.”
“What about pretty sandy-haired widows with amber eyes and incisive minds?”
Noel’s gaze went right to Jess, who talked with Rowe and Mr. Walditch. She, of course, looked enchanting this evening in a dress the color of the sky just before dawn, pearls hanging from her ears but her neck deliciously bare.
“Judging by the length of your silence,” McCameron said drily, “I can only assume that you’ve given the matter consideration.”
“She’s recently out of mourning. If she’s anything like the widows I’ve known, she’ll want as much liberty as possible before taking another husband. If she wants another husband. Can’t see much to recommend husbands to anyone.”
His own parents’ union had been a pleasant but not especially passionate one. In truth, he couldn’t remember them kissing in his presence, but then, they had both been scrupulously aware of decorum at all times, even at home in just the presence of their children.
McCameron said, “She might, however, want the security that comes from marriage. If she hasn’t mentioned it to you, it could be because she’s set her cap for someone else.”
Noel glanced at his friend, who spoke from painful experience. He didn’t know what to say—never truly did—when it came to McCameron’s heartbreak, and so he kept silent.
But the notion badgered him—picturing Jess married. And not to him.
“You’re grinding your teeth,” McCameron noted.
“And your hearing needs attending to.” He studied the ornately carved ceiling. “Listen, McCameron, if I’ve been overbearing about anything—”
“All the time,” his friend answered brightly.
“What I’m trying to say,” Noel pressed on, his jaw tight, “is that if I have been a bit too domineering or high-handed about making decisions, or doing whatever I please without asking for anyone’s opinion, I, uh, I’m sorry.” Those last words were mumbled.
Brows raised, McCameron regarded him. “I think you’re right. I do need my hearing attended to. Because I just heard you apologize.”
“Do you accept my apology or not?” Noel irritably demanded.
“I do,” his friend said. “And if this new, slightly more humble Rotherby is at all Lady Whitfield’s doing, then I must congratulate her on achieving that which no amount of Eton tutors, university dons, and members of the Union of the Rakes could.”
“You’re an ass,” Noel muttered. “But thank you for your forbearance.”
A bright, musical laugh sounded, and both Noel and McCameron looked to its source. Lady Farris stood flanked by almost all the remaining male guests, and as Noel and his friend watched, she swatted at Curtis’s arm in playful remonstrance.
“You’re scowling at her,” Noel observed. “Can’t understand why. A delightful woman, Lady Farris.”
McCameron snorted. “Do you know she asked me if I knew the way to the roof because she wanted to go there tonight and watch the moon rise? She said, and I quote, ‘What a lark that would be, standing on the roof and seeing the moon crest the horizon.’”
“It shouldn’t matter a rat’s arse to you if she wants to climb the chimneys.”
“Couldn’t she take up something less dangerous like, I don’t know, making flowers out of paper? Can’t break your neck making paper roses.”
The surliness in normally even-keeled McCameron’s voice gave Noel pause.
In truth, he worried about McCameron. The war had ended, his friend had returned, and yet since then, McCameron had drifted, aimless, from one thing to the next. He took occasional employment reviewing accounting ledgers for sundry noblemen and businesses, but nothing had ever truly captured his attention. But he said nothing about what might be behind his lack of purpose, or his plans and hopes for the future.
Something had to be done.
“Your Grace, my ladies and lords, and gentlemen,” Vale intoned from the doorway, “dinner awaits.” He bowed and withdrew.
As the host, and the highest-ranking member of the group, it was Noel’s obligation to escort the highest-ranking female into the dining room. He went to Lady Haighe and held out his arm.
“Would you honor me?”
She eyed his arm. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On what food you intend to serve us. I don’t want to be led into cold soup and boiled potatoes.”