Because Guinevere Woodville was inside.
When he opened the door, the cheerful warmth of the place seemed to rush forward to greet him.
He drew in a long breath to settle the absurd, utterly uncharacteristic twang of nerves.
He took a few steps into the foyer.
Then froze beneath the chandelier.
Ginny was sitting in the reception room on the pink settee.
Across from her sat a very handsome young man.
In other words, a man herownage.
The man was long limbed and lean, and at a glance Marchand could see he was wealthy. It was something about the posture, the shine on the boots, the Byronic cut of his curly hair. He looked like the young men who clamored to become members of Lucifer’s Fall. But Marchand didn’t recognize him.
Ginny was smiling at him fondly.
Marchand’s breathing went shallow.
A pot of tea and cups occupied the table in the middle. Which suggested this was a formal social call of some duration.
Dot occupied a chair in the corner, an embroidery hoop in her lap. He supposed she’d been recruited for the occasion. Because, of course, young, unmarried aristocratic ladies could not visit with aristocratic men without witnesses.
God only knew what they could get up to.
His absolute rigidity must have drawn their attention.
Although his glowering could have done it, too.
Ginny shot to her feet at once. The brilliant delight that flared unguarded in her face evolved into alarm, then caution.
Then guilt.
When her eyes went pleading, his gut pulled itself into a knot.
Of course, she had no reason to feel guilty at all.
He had no claim on her.
Just as there was no real reason for jealousy to be pouring through him in black, toxic torrents.
He, in fact, couldn’t breathe for it. It was a sensation utterly unprecedented in his life. He had no defense against it. He simply stood there, amazed, and boiled in it.
“Miss Woodville,” he replied politely, when he was finally able to speak. “Good afternoon.”
He looked pointedly at the young man sitting across from her, then back at Ginny, then back at the man, who had the refined features one might find on someone whose ancestorshad mated with only attractive people over the centuries. He’d risen to his feet, too. He was regarding Marchand with the pleasant, open expression of someone who easily trusted because he’d never doubted for a moment that the world was arranged in his favor.
“May I introduce my friend Francis Balfort? His father is the Duke of Balfort. He’s visiting London and learned from our mutual friend Lord Cambrough that I was in London as well. I happened to accidentally meet Lord Cambrough in a shop the other day.”
Ah, yes. Fleegle’s Emporium of Wonders, specifically.
“How do you do, Mr. Balfort. I’m...”
He halted abruptly. Ginny’s eyes had suddenly gone terrified and beseeching.
And then he understood: She was afraid he was going to say his own name.