A prickling thrill traced the spines of all the observers.
The two of them, rather than looking silly, looked truly dangerous.
Angelique had a sudden, captivating vision of the two of them as little boys, roughhousing and bonking away at each other with sticks, and her heart gave a little squeeze, as though wringing its hands in pleasure.
Caught up in the drama, every last one of them—Delilah and Angelique included—unsheathed invisible swords and made great show of testing the blades with their fingertips.
Lucien and Captain Hardy faced each other and adopted a fencing stance.
All was riveted silence.
And Captain Hardy lunged at Lucien.
Pandemonium ensued.
“DIE, SCALLYWAG!” Mrs. Pariseau roared and feinted at Dot, who slashed back with a two-armed swing of the invisible scimitar she’d decided she was wielding. Delilah was holding off Mr. Delacorte with her own sword. Mr. Cassidy shouted, “FIRE!” and mimed lighting a cannon, displaying a talent for improvisation.
And then suddenly Angelique froze, riveted.
Lucien and Captain Hardy had locked invisible swords in the air.
Suddenly it was almost too real. Men with actual blades that could pierce and slice had once rushed at Lucien and he had not died. Thank God, thank God, he had not died.
The absurd miracle of him standing in this room right now, captivating a little audience, persuading even her into pretending to be a pirate, struck her dumb with a gratitude so enormous it felt nearly holy. And an absurd impulse took her to bellow “Braaak!” and go at Captain Hardy with her pantomime sword.
But she was still for too long.
Mr. Delacorte lunged at her with his invisible sword just as Delilah accidentally trod on her shoe, and in her attempt to dodge Angelique stumbled and began to topple to the ground.
“Oh, no! You’ve killed Mrs. Breedlove!” Dot shouted.
In the spirit of things, Angelique crumpled prettily to the floor, closed her eyes, and obligingly lay still.
She gave a start when something immediately landed with a thud next to her head.
She opened her eyes to see Lucien’s face, white and stricken.
That thud had been him dropping to his knees.
They stared at each other a moment. He was breathing quickly.
“I was play-acting,” she said gently. “I was not really killed by a make-believe sword.”
He blinked. His face went utterly blank.
He momentarily looked rather like Delacorte after he’d been beaten in chess. As though someone had taken the flat of a board and swung it like a cricket bat at his head.
He sat back hard on his heels and frowned blackly down at her.
Then rose to his feet and, after a peculiar little pause, during which he eyed her the way a sailor might have eyed a siren, knowing his fate was predestined and unable to avoid it, he extended his hand to her.
It was the moment of hesitation between the time he extended his hand and the time she finally took it that told them perhaps more than either of them wanted to know.
And then her skin was against his skin. Again.
At last.
His hand closed around hers, gently.