“Mellie,” Trevor said, but it wasn’t a word. It was more of a rasp, or even a shaping of her name with his lips, spoken as a groan.
Suddenly, she remembered all the other times he’d said her name, and all the other ways. With desire, with hunger, with laughter, with any of a thousand emotions. And none were this near-silent anguish.
“Do you remember what I told you when all this started?” Was that her voice? Her words? Apparently so, because she saw his skin pale.
“I remember everything,” he said.
So did she, and yet she kept speaking, the words flowing without restraint. “I said I wanted love.” How pathetic, she thought, to admit that out loud. She sounded like a schoolgirl in the midst of her first childish fantasy.
Trevor’s lips compressed, and she watched his expression flash through torment before it settled into a bland frown. “My set doesn’t look for love, Mellie. Not in their wives.”
“I didn’t think I was affianced to your set.” She tried to stop talking, but it was like she was bleeding words. “I thought I was engaged to you.”
He didn’t respond, and for a moment she couldn’t understand why. And then she realized he was waiting for her to turn around. It was time for the cut direct, but she couldn’t move.
And when the moment stretched, he prompted her. “Was engaged?” he pressed. “So we are done then?”
She tried to say yes. She tried to nod or turn around or something, but her chest had frozen solid. No more words bled out of her. But inside, she was screaming.
Trevor!
He understood. She could see it in his eyes. He knew what she was thinking, knew that inside she was screaming.
Trevor!
“Everything will be all right,” he said softly. “Trust me.”
Fury—white and hot—blazed through her. She didn’t even know if he’d said that on purpose just to make her angry, or if he really was that stupid. He had to know that she was done trusting him, done trusting any man to know anything about what was best. Because they were all cow-dung stupid.
“I hate you all,” she said, and she truly, absolutely meant it. So she spun around, giving him her back. Then she focused on the one person closest to her, the one man who would most wound Trevor and best represented her disgust of his set. “Mr. Rausch, you were saying something about…about…”
Hell, she had no idea what the man had been talking about. Fortunately, he raised his arm and smiled as if she was the smartest girl on Earth.
“About bleaching creams. I understand you’ve been exploring their uses. But the air is foul in here, I think. Shall we step outside? The garden is quite lovely in moonlight.”
She didn’t bother answering. She remained unresisting as he took her fingers and set them on his arm. Then they strolled together to the French doors, stepping out to the night air. It was indeed cooler out there. And cooler inside her heart as well, as every step away from Trevor brought back the numbness. By the time they made it to the side of a sickly looking tree, her entire body was gone. A wooden doll again, though without the pat phrases from Eleanor. Her mind was filled with screams. First his name, then her anger, then a raw note that throbbed with every passing second.
She waited for the sound to fade, but it never did. It was there, at the edge of her awareness, never fully suppressed, but perhaps not as loud.
And then Mr. Rausch lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to the back of it while stroking the curve of her palm. On and on, just a slow circular stroke, until she finally, inevitably, looked up at him.
“Sir?”
“Ah. Welcome back. Are you able to manage conversation now?”
She flushed slightly at his words, knowing she’d probably been rude, but he didn’t seem insulted. Merely concerned. “You are very kind to help me like this.”
“No, Miss Smithson, I am not kind at all.” He paused a moment, clearly waiting to see if he had her attention. She mustered what she could and gave it to him. His lips curved in a slow smile, and he spoke a little slowly as if she were a dim-witted child. Apparently she was, because she had a great deal of difficulty following his words.
“Plain speaking is best, do you agree?” he asked.
“Uh, yes. Yes, of course.”
“I am not kind, Miss Smithson. I am greedy.”
She stared, replaying his words. This was the usual patter of social conversation. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
He smiled at that, and it was an unusual smile. Neither cruel nor supportive, and not even lascivious, or not in the usual way. What she saw in the curve of his lips was…avarice. Polished, intelligent, and careful greed.