She did not reply. Which was probably for the best. If she’d given him the set-down he so richly deserved, he’d have had to respond in kind. Because that was the sort of mood he was in. And then he’d have to dislike himself even more than he did right now.

Frankly, he found the whole proposition rather tiresome.

She did not deserve his foul mood, but then again, he had attempted to remove himself from social interaction. She was the one who had hunted him down, all the way to the Derragarra Inn.

She sat in the chair across from him, regarding him with an even expression. And then it occurred to him—

“What are you doing here?”

“I believe I said I was looking for you.”

He looked around. They were in a pub, for God’s sake. Men were drinking. “You came without a chaperone?”

She gave a little shrug. “I doubt anyone has noticed I’ve gone missing. There is quite a bit of excitement at Cloverhill.”

“All are feting the new duke?” he asked, dry and wry.

She cocked her head to the side, a tiny acknowledgment of his sarcasm. “All are feting his upcoming marriage.”

He looked up sharply at that.

“Not to me,” she put in hastily, raising a hand as if to ward off the query.

“Yes,” he murmured. “All that feting would be a bit awkward without the bride.”

Her mouth clamped together, betraying her impatience with him. But she kept her temper, saying, “He is marrying Grace.”

“Is he now?” He smiled at that. For real. “That’s good. That’s a good thing.”

“They seem to love each other very much.”

He looked up at her. She was sitting very quietly. It wasn’t just her voice, though; it was her demeanor, her aspect. Her hair was pulled back loosely, with a few misbehaving tendrils tucked behind her ears, and her mouth—she wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t frowning, either. Considering all that had transpired that day, she was remarkably serene and composed. And maybe a little happy. If not for herself, then for Jack and Grace.

“The proposal was very romantic,” she informed him.

“You witnessed it?”

She grinned. “We all did.”

“Even my grandmother?”

“Oh, yes.”

He chuckled, despite his determination to remain cross. “I am sorry I missed it.”

“I am sorry you missed it, too.”

There was something in her voice…And when he looked up, there was something in her eyes, too. But he didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want to know it. He did not want her pity or her sympathy or whatever it was when a woman’s face held that awful expression—a little bit maternal, a little bit sad, as if she wanted to fix his problems for him, make it all go away with a kiss and a There, there.