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The old devil you refer to died almost a year ago,” Denny informed him. “The son’s inherited now. A good enough fellow.” “So the ladies report.” Portia flashed a wicked smile as she underscored Lord Kendall’s name in her book. “He’s quite a favorite with the widows, you know. Oh, Mr. Denton, do invite him for dinner!” “Can’t. He’s not in residence at Corbinsdale. Never is, this time of year.” “Pity,” said Brooke dryly. “Indeed,” Portia sighed. “My list is back to one.” “Leave him alone.” Cursing her unthinking response, Cecily added, “Lord Kendall, I mean. And do put away your list. Denny was about to tell his story.” Luke moved to the edge of his armchair. Those cold, dark eyes held her captive as he posed a succinct, incisive question. “Jealous, Cecy?” Cecy. No one had called her that in years. Not since that last night before he’d left, when he’d wound a strand of her hair about his finger and leaned in close, with that arrogant, devastating smile teasing one corner of his mouth. Won’t you miss me, Cecy? Four years later, and her blood still responded just as fiercely as it had that night, pounding in her heart and pushing a hot blush to her throat. She had missed him. She missed him still. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding him. “Why should I be jealous of Lord Kendall?” “Yes, how absurd.” Portia gave a throaty laugh. “Everyone knows Cecily’s going to marry Denny.” Lifting his tumbler of whiskey, Luke retreated into the shadows. “Do they?” Was it disappointment she detected in his voice? Or merely boredom? And for heaven’s sake, why couldn’t she simply forbid herself to care? “Denny,
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