“Oh, look, her door’s open!” A new voice drifted in from outside and made her decide on panicked. Not Lottie too. She didn’t need anyone else crowding in here, and—drat it all, Charlotte Wight never did know when not to stick her nose in. She burst through the open door, the dual shadows of the viscount and Mr. Bryant behind her. “Libby, you’re back! I was hoping you would be soon. I have the absolute best news—Emily is returning! Only there are no cottages left to let, so I . . .”

Someday, this would all be very amusing to look back on. Someday, Libby would no doubt laugh at how many times the same pattern was played out, with guests coming in unannounced and then stammering to a halt upon spotting Bram. Someday, perhaps, she would even joke with her brother about the effect he had on people.

Someday seemed very far away just now. Now she just had to marvel at the sheer bad luck of it. And somehow find the gumption to make introductions. She began with a loud clearing of her throat. “Bram, you may recall that I mentioned my friend from the Château. This is her, Miss Charlotte Wight, along with Lord Willsworth and his cousin, Mr. Bryant. Everyone, my brother, Lord Telford. And his friend, Lord Sheridan.”

The fellows had crossed paths before, as evidenced by Sheridan’s cheerily trying to place where they’d done so. Bram no doubt recalled, but he’d lapsed into a frown again after an obligatory greeting, gaze flicking from the viscount to Libby to Oliver. She could all but read his thoughts—he was wondering if his little sister hadn’t managed to find a decent fellow to spend time with after all, and then doubting she had the sense to follow up on it. He’d be noticing how awkward Lord Willsworth looked as he edged into the cottage—into which he’d clearly never stepped foot—versus how comfortably Oliver had let himself in.