“I am so sorry that you knew pain, Angelique.”
She went utterly still, as if attempting to hide in the dark. She could not, for a moment, speak at all.
She lifted and let fall a shoulder. “What makes you think I felt any pain at all?”
She was sorry now she’d been truthful. She was not accustomed to anyone else having a rummage about in her soul.
“Because...” He leaned forward, so that she could smell both the brandy and the delicious warm scent of him, like something freshly toasted. “I’ve had all manner of experiences and known all manner of people... I believe I can say with some authority that people become who they are more because of the pain they experience than the pleasure. And you, my friend, I do believe you carry about your pain the way you might carry eggs in your apron.”
Her breath left her on a little stunned sound. She was perversely hopelessly charmed by the analogy. Even as it stripped her bare. She was stunned that he had seen it.
It made her instantly understand why he’d felt like running away last night.
“People are who they are because of the kindnesses in their lives, too.” Her voice had gone faint. She said it more because she wanted to believe it.
“Do not attempt to divert me from my sulk with sense, if you please.” His voice was stern and amused.
“Oh,doforgive me.”
But she had diverted him from his sulk.
He suddenly looked nearly entirely sober and his eyes were fixed on her as if she were a rare plant that bloomed only once every decade and would do it any second.
The fire crackled and popped. It occurred to her that it would be wise to say good-night and leave.
“Who was this person, Angelique?”
She waved his question away. “I’m much more interested in what your father had to say to you.”
“Who was this person—or persons—who was unworthy of your love?” He said this as though she hadn’t said a word.
“Oh, Lucien. That is quite the way to put it.”
“I should think you’d expect that sort of thing from me by now. My expensive education, as my father put it, is stamped all over me and there’s naught I can do about it now.”
“I don’t suppose it’s important.”
“It was once important to you, so it’s important to me. If there were a list of rules for friendship, the telling of details would be among them. If I feel I am not alone in my betrayal, if you will, perhaps my mood will”—he snapped his fingers—“drift away like so much London fog.”
“What an artful way to dress up your rank curiosity.”
“Curiosity is not against the rules here at The Grand Palace on the Thames. I have memorized them.”
She gave a soft laugh, which tapered into a long sigh.
“There was... the heir to an earl. Very handsome and charming and very persistent. I worked as a seamstress and he was a customer. He led me to believe he was smitten.Icertainly was. He took me off to Scotland.” Somehow in this almost-dark room it was easier to talk of things, using adjectives and emotions. Somehow things that once loomed large seemed dimmer, less significant, in his dazzling, singular presence. “And there he told me he was marrying someone more appropriate and I was a bit of fun.”
Lucien was absolutely silent. He’s gone expressionless.
“And there was... there was one other. The father of my charges when I was a governess. It was an old-fashioned seduction. I was naive and a virgin... and it did rather quite put paid to my chances at being a governess anywhere else. And my relatives disowned me.”
She didn’t mention the Earl of Derring, who had naught to do with her heart. He had not caused her pain. Only terror when he died and left her penniless.
Lucien was silent for a time.
“I shall need their names.”
“Why?”