But shewasimagining it. And it was clear it was causing her distress. He found he wasn’t eager to expound on it. But he did want to take that worried expression from her eyes.
He gave the ball of yarn a three-quarter turn in order to free a strand from where it was twisted about three others.
“Is there such a thing as presumption between friends, Mrs. Breedlove?”
She flashed him a wry look.
“Well, the new duchess-to-be, was, shall we say, ill pleased with our very existence when she learned of it. Seems a condition of her marriage to the duke was a severing of his ties to us. Her blood was blue and she could provide a legitimate heir, which of course they set about doing with alacrity. We lived in a little house on his property in Sussex that the duke would come to visit—that’s where the apple orchards were—and overnight we were removed to a squalid flat in London. I was seventeen years old. And I...”
Maybe it was because he hadn’t ever said these words aloud in this precise order. Or maybe it was the hazel eyes on him, soft as pillows. But unspooling his story was more difficult than he’d anticipated. It felt a bit, in fact, like unraveling something that would leave him exposed, and this was a revelation. “...I set about making certain that the Duchess of Brexford understood how difficult it would be to forget me.”
He said this lightly.
Good God. He hadn’t anticipated that this friendship thing was a tricky business.
She was studying him with those eyes that gave the illusion that one could see right into her soul if only one got close enough.
He had been so close, once. So close.
He thought maybe she could see into his and was momentarily desperately curious to hear her conclusion.
“I struggle to think of a circumstance in which you would be forgettable, Lord Bolt.”
She said it dryly. But she lowered her eyes almost immediately. Her hands lay awkwardly. And it seemed for a moment she had entirely forgotten how to knit.
His exultation was quiet but deep. For a moment he simply couldn’t speak. He looked at the fine bones of her hand. He imagined pressing his lips against the pale blue veins in her wrist, long enough to feel her pulse speed.
His head went as light as if he were jerked to the top of a mountain.
“Oh, of a certainty I leave an indelible impression. But I thought it best to race high flyers up Bond Street and make wagers, anyway. As I said before, I am nothing if not thorough.”
She smiled at him slowly.
As if to give voice to his own pent frustration, a long groan erupted behind him. Mr. Cassidy had rather melodramatically dropped his head into his hands.
“Bolt,” he moaned. “Come and play a chess game with Delacorte. He has unmanned me yet again and I cannot bear it. I am going to play Whist with the ladies, which is only what I deserve.”
The ladies would be only too happy to accommodate Mr. Cassidy, of course.
“We will unman you, too, Mr. Cassidy,” Mrs. Pariseau said placidly. “I hope you’ve a pocketful of pence. Dot is rather ruthless, as it turns out.”
Lucien looked down at his lapful of blue yarn, startled as if from a daydream. He suddenly wondered if being Mrs. Breedlove’s friend would ultimately unmanhim.
And yet, for a mad, mad moment, if time had stopped and left him sitting here forever, watching her knit, he might not have objected.
He stood up quickly, almost as though to prove to himself that he still could. This was quite enough friendship for the evening.
“I’ve nearly untangled your yarn. I best go humble Delacorte.”
“Ha!” Delacorte was amused. “I’d like to see you try, Bolt.”
“Checkmate,” Lucien said lazily.
Delacorte stared blankly at the chessboard for a full two seconds.
Then up at Bolt.
His expression called to mind that of a man who had been struck cross the head with a plank.