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“I know, sweet boy,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “I am worried too.”

Matilda rose and came to stand beside her, pressing a comforting hand to Roxina’s arm. “They will return soon.”

Would they?

Recalling Shelby’s heartfelt declaration and her inadequate, indifferent response, Roxina swallowed hard.

Could she have been more diplomatic?

Kinder?

Known for her bluntness, Roxina thought she had tempered her reply, for she had no wish to hurt him.

Roxina. I love you.

Four paltry words that kept a running monologue in her mind. And not only did they torment her to no end, but memory after memory reared its head, reminding her of all the times Shelby had shown her he loved her, and she had been too blind—too deuced obstinate—to see it.

God above, when had she become so unfeeling and calloused?

A hardened skeptic who could not recognize love?

No, she argued with herself.

You have refused to feel—to love.

That was not the same as being incapable of loving.

Roxina almost gasped at the agony wrenching her heart.

If she didn’t care about Shelby—really care—would she feel this pain?

Never had she been more confused.

God, help me.

She needed something—anything—to fill this wretched time before her mind spun itself into an even darker place. A place she wasn’t prepared to face.

She clasped Matilda’s hand, praying her desperation didn’t show.

“Mittie, why don’t we send word to Aubriella, Claire, and Georgine and see if they can call later this afternoon? We can discuss the situation that brought me here.” She summoned a strained smile. “And I know you were interested in becoming a member of the Ladies of Opportunity.”

“Indeed, I am!” Matilda’s eyes widened with excitement, her whole countenance lighting up like a child offered an entire tray of sweetmeats. “You would not believe the incredulous wagers I have heard.”

Oh, Roxina would, for she had written so many ridiculous bets in Ladies of Opportunity’s ledger that it boggled the mind.

The Dowager Belaire bet her crony, Lady Wyman, ten guineas that she could drink more cups of tea than Lady Wyman before having to excuse herself to the necessary.

Lady Tolland and Lady Henshaw wagered five guineas on who could slip the most sugar lumps into Lord Percival’s and Sir Digby’s tea before the gentlemen finally refused to drink another sip.

Lady Sybil bet Lady Marchmont who could make Miss Tibbins exclaim, “Gosh!” the most times during a single evening at Vauxhall Gardens.

Matilda leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice, though there was no one to overhear her. “Just last week, Lady Pemberton bet Lady Tottenham twenty guineas that her husband would snore so loudly at the opera that someone would swat him with her fan. Those ladies are constantly at odds and trying to outshine the other.”

Roxina smothered a laugh, shaking her head. “And did he?”

“With great gusto.” Blue eyes sparkling, Matilda grinned. “The Dowager Rushbrook whacked Mr. Tottenham twice on the head before the first intermission.”

Roxina’s lips twitched with amusement, though she quickly tempered her jollity with a more serious tone. “We do not place wagers ourselves because it’s a conflict of interest.”