He moved like a man balancing something that might burst into flame. Careful footsteps across the carpet.
To close the door.
And her heart leaped. Perhaps this was a moment she would never forget. Perhaps he was about to ask something that would change her life forever. Perhaps he was only sick with nerves.
“I wondered...” he said carefully “...if you would mind sharing how you happened to meet Mrs. Hardy. The former Lady Derring.”
Her heart crashed through her body to her feet.
Whereupon it took up a pounding she could feel everywhere in her veins, like a battle drum. Her mouth went dry.
He waited. But there was nothing of surprise in his countenance. He seemed to be schooling all of his features to stillness.
“From your expression, I’m going to guess you already know,” she said quietly. And somewhat ironically. Because it had traditionally been her armor, irony. That, and pride.
He gave a short nod.
There was another silence.
“You ought to have told me. I wish you had told me.”
She couldn’t quite read his tone. It was quiet. But shot through with what sounded like despair. A bleakness she could not quite interpret. A sick, cold ache began in the pit of her stomach.
“What difference would it have made? Precisely when do you envision me broaching the subject? Over dinners of lamb in mint? In the middle of Whist? Naked in your arms? ‘That was magnificent, Lucien. So refreshing, given that the Earl of Derring made love the same wayevery single time.’”
That’s when she realized this ambush—and itfeltlike an ambush—made her a little angry. Not only because of the surprise. But in large part because she could not possibly guess what came next, and really anger and fear were often very nearly the same thing.
He didn’t even blink.
“Fair point,” he said evenly. “And what a fool Derring must have been. Making love to you the same way every night is like going right up to the threshold of Paradise but never venturing any farther into it.”
“Lucien.” She was trembling now. Her hand rose; she was about to cover her face. But that was purely absurd.
He knew all there was to know and there was no hiding from herself or from him now. She brought it down.
“You ought to have told me, Angelique.” Still, he sounded less furious... less betrayed... than wretched. “Because I have been honest with you. I thought you were honest with me.”
She gestured impatiently. “If you’d known that... would you see me for myself? Or would you see me as every man before saw me, a woman defined by whatever man has the pleasure of my body? Would you assume I was willing for you if I was willing for him? Would you assume I had a price? I am the one whoalwayspays, Lucien.”
“But you told me about the other men. The ones who hurt you. Why didn’t you tell me about Derring?”
There was a silence. The air she drew was too hot, her heart beating too quickly. She wished she understood his mood; but there was nothing between her and the truth anymore. She had no choice at all. Her chin went up, and her tone, her armor, was irony and pride.
“Lucien, it’s because... the other two men I told you about could be put down to youth or naivete, perhaps. But the Earl of Derring? It was the choice I made in order to survive and it’s the reason I have everything I have today. I hated needing to make it, but apparently I’m the sort of woman who makes those sorts of choices. And so, no. I didn’t tell you about him.”
He briefly closed his eyes.
“Angelique... you should know by now that it would not have mattered adamnto me.”
He said this quietly, but every word carried an equal ferocity.
She blinked. Her heart wrung with fear. Something else was happening here, and she could not yet guess what it was.
He drew in a long breath, clearly to steady his own mood.
“Did you ever see my father at the Earl of Derring’s little gatherings?” His face was taut with the struggle to keep emotion and expression at bay.
“Yes,” she whispered. Frightened now.