And Delphine? She stood up on the dais, head high, one hand at her breast, immobile while they all stared at her. Finally, she gave a gracious smile and nodded at Mme. d’Hivers. “But of course,” she said, and moved gracefully across the dais, down the two steps, and across the floor to the door, where she placed her hand on that of the older woman and allowed herself to be led from the room.
Ned let out the breath he had not realized he was holding and turned to look at Marguerite.
She shook her head. “I am sorry. It is not your fault. Someone should have warned you.”
“What isn’t my fault? What should someone have warned me about?” His confusion was giving way to anger. “What the hell just happened?”
She was standing there looking coldly emotionless again. Could this possibly be the same woman who had made the music he had listened to not an hour ago? This, this ice queen? She was so pale he could believe that it was ice water, not blood, running though her veins.
“I am sorry,” she said again. “It is just that…” She licked her lips—at least that was some sign of emotion. “Delphine…she is very imaginative. There are times when she forgets and gets carried away.”
“You mean she lives in a dream world.” The brutality of his tone made her flinch.
She held herself up stiffly, however, and persisted. “It has been difficult for her. Her father died, then her mother, then her uncle. My mother. The siege. My father’s death.”
“I apologize.” He felt a guilty flush creep up his face. “It must have been difficult for you as well.”
Her shoulders lifted in a dismissive shrug. “I am not so…fragile as she is. And then I never knew her father, barely knew her mother and uncle.”
“Now you are responsible for her?” This could not be right. Delphine was…he was not sure what Delphine was, though she was obviously not the sweet, angelic creature he had thought when he first saw her. Something was certainly wrong with the girl. Marguerite could not possibly have such responsibility thrust upon her. She was too young herself, not more than a year or two older, and, now that he looked more closely, too pale and thin, too fragile herself for such a burden.
But she looked away. “I promised my mother. There is no one else.”
He muttered an oath and seized her by the arm. “Come with me.”
Chapter Eleven
Marguerite was too surprised to do anything but go along with him. Was it surprise, or did she want to go with him? Was she fooling herself? She should not be affected by his touch, but somehow she was unable—no, unwilling—to resist.
In no time, it seemed, she found herself back in the inhabited part of the chateau, seated by the fire in a small parlor. She ought to protest such high-handed behavior, she supposed, but it had been chilly in the music room and the old rooms, especially that ballroom, had been icy. She shivered and reached her hands out to the fire and the warmth. Her fingers tingled as they thawed and the blood returned to them.
“Do you need a shawl?” Lord Edward asked. She found it impossible to think of him without his title, no matter what sort of informality Delphine had ordained. Just now his voice sounded more angry than concerned.
She shook her head. “No, I am perfectly comfortable, thank you.” That was not true. She was never comfortable these days. Still, what business was it of his, how she felt?
He did not look as if he believed her, and went to the door to call for a servant.
She stiffened in irritation, not accustomed to being disbelieved. It was even more annoying when she had been lying, or at least suppressing the truth. “I do not wish a shawl,” she snapped.
He turned back from addressing the servant and scowled at her. “Then you shall not have one. But I wish for some tea, and from the look of you, you could use some as well.”
She tightened her lips and turned back to the fire. She was cold. Her very bones were cold. There was an icy chill at the very heart of her. A shawl, a cup of tea, even this fire would not warm her. There were times when she thought that she would never be warm again. Her fingers at least were beginning to thaw. She sank into the chair closest to the fire.
At least Tante Héloise had taken charge of Delphine. For the moment she did not need to worry, but the fear at the heart of her gave way to a weariness that swept over her in waves. She was tired, so very tired. And the chair was so soft. She leaned back, sank into it, and closed her eyes.
A sudden clatter made her jump. For a noise to have startled her that way, she must have dozed off at least a bit. Surely she had not fallen fully asleep—that would be too embarrassing. Yet when she opened her eyes, there was a laden tea table in front of her, and Lord Edward was pouring. She straightened up in her chair and stopped her hands from reaching up to make sure her hair was neatly in place. She was not going to fuss about her appearance in front of him.
“Do you take milk and sugar?” he asked. Perhaps he had not noticed her drowsing.
“Neither. Some lemon if there is any.”
He nodded as if he had expected that and put a slice in her cup before handing it to her. She took it and nodded thanks. Then he held out a plate of cakes to her. This time she shook her head to refuse, but he did not withdraw the plate.
“Take one and eat it,” he said. Ordered, one might say.
She disliked taking orders. “Thank you, but I am not hungry.”
“You do not eat enough.” He was frowning at her.
She sighed impatiently. “There is enough food served at every meal here to feed an entire village.”
“That may well be true, but you don’t eat it. You just play with it.” He continued to hold out the plate of cakes, and continued to frown.
She was taken aback. He should not have been aware of that. No one else was. Her appetite vanished each time a plate of food appeared before her, but she thought she took enough tiny bites to fool people. Who would have expected him to be the one to notice? She hesitated, then took a small cake covered in white icing, and popped it into her mouth. It seemed easier than arguing. Besides, while her mouth was full of cake, she could hardly be expected to converse.
It seemed that Lord Edward was not inclined to converse either. He put down the plate and sat back, arms folded, to watch her eat. Not until she had swallowed the cake, had a sip of tea, and dabbed her mouth with her napkin, did he give a satisfied nod and speak. “How did Delphine come to be with you?”
That was not quite what she had expected, but upon consideration, it was a question that could be answered.
“It was about five years ago now,” she said. “We were living in Paris, and one day Delphine and her mother, Tante Louise, just appeared on our doorstep. The baron, Delphine’s father, had died and it seems he left debts and nothing else. Naturally, we took them in. After all, Tante Louise was Maman’s sister.” She shrugged and took a sip of her tea, glancing at him through her lashes. Surely that was enough explanation. He was listening but did not appear satisfied. Pity.
“What of her father’s family?” he asked.
She settled her cup in its saucer. “There was an uncle, her father’s brother. He came not long after, and wanted Delphine to go back to the school where her father had put her, with the nuns. Delphine did not want this; neither did my aunt, but her uncle kept insisting it should be as her father had wanted. There were many arguments.” She shook her head, but could not shake away the memory of those angry voices and her aunt’s hysterical weeping. “It was not a pleasant time.”
When she did not continue, he prodded. “Did he give up then?”
“Not precisely. He was not well—we had not realized he was so ill.” She shrugged. “He said it was dyspepsia, and he was about to go to a spa, but it was too late. Not long after he died, Tante Louise fell ill as well.”
“Rather an epidemic,” he said.
“Not really. Tante Louise had been ill before they came. Consumption. That was why she brought Delphine to us—she wanted to be sure she would be taken ca
re of.”
He was looking doubtful. “I thought her uncle wanted to take care of her. You said she had been in a school—a convent school, I assume. Would it not have been better for her to remain there, in a familiar place, if her mother was so ill?”
How could she explain? Both Tante Louise and Delphine had grown hysterical at the suggestion. They’d said it had been a truly dreadful and frightening place and they had not calmed down until Maman had sworn to take care of Delphine.
“It was not a good place. Delphine disliked it,” she said. “My mother promised Tante Louise that she could stay with us, that we would take care of her. She promised that we would never send Delphine back to that school. Then when my mother was dying, I promised her. Does that satisfy you? Have you asked enough questions?”
Maman! That horrible day. I had turned away for only a minute to look in the window of the milliner, wishing for the pretty, frivolous little hat, when I heard the crashing sounds, the shrieks of the horses, of the people. When I reached them, I had to push through the people.
There was blood, and Maman was lying on the ground, her face twisted in pain. When I grasped her hand, Maman had known me. She looked at me, and managed to speak. “Delphine,” she had said. She sounded so urgent, so I said, “Don’t worry. I will take care of her.”
And then Maman was gone. Just like that. It was over.
She jumped to her feet, abruptly enough to make the tea table before her shake. She was trembling. This could not be allowed. None of this was any business of his. Why was he asking all these questions? More importantly, why was she answering them? She did not want to think about all of that. She did not want to remember. She must be more tired than she had realized to have so little control over her tongue.
It was no concern of his if she was cold, if she did not eat enough. Why was he acting as if it was his concern? Why was he acting as if he had a right to take care of her?
Why did she want to let him take care of her?
Because she did.
She closed her eyes. She must be out of her mind. A handsome young man had done something as simple as lead her to the fireside and hand her a cup of tea, and all of a sudden she was ready to cling to him and tell him all her troubles. All her secrets. And more.
She could not be tempted. She must not. Without another word she fled the room.
He had managed to stand before she ran away, but he hadn’t been able to stop her. Should he have tried? Did he even have the right to stop her? The infernal woman seemed quite clear that she did not want any help from him. Not that he knew what sort of help she needed. More than a cup of tea and a frosted cake—that much anyone could see.
She must have been exhausted to fall asleep that way in front of him. And it had been a shock to see her. In sleep she had seemed different—softer, more vulnerable. Her defenses had fallen away. And she looked really quite—not pretty. No. Not that. Even in sleep she was too regal for mere prettiness. But there was true beauty in her face. Her mouth, when it was not pressed tightly into that disapproving line, was soft and delicate. Beautifully shaped. Inviting. He shook off the thought.
There was a mystery here. What was she afraid of? Why did she always hold herself so tensely defensive?
She had her secrets and she had her responsibilities—far too many responsibilities, it seemed—and no one to take care of her. The old man obviously was in no condition to do anything himself, but he should have made some provision for her and Delphine. Or Tony should step in—he was their cousin, after all, even if distant.
It certainly wasn’t his job to take care of her. He didn’t even like her. She was nothing like the pretty and charming—if slightly odd—Delphine.
Marguerite was proud and arrogant and generally unpleasant. She had made her indifference perfectly clear, and that was fine with him. If she wanted to clutch her problems to her bosom, he wasn’t going to try to pry them loose. She could play the tragedy queen to her heart’s content. It was no affair of his.
She was indifferent to him, and he was indifferent to her.
Fine.
Marguerite managed to get to her room before she began to tremble. She leaned against the door, barely able to stand. What was wrong with her? This woman here in her body—this was someone she did not recognize.
Bad enough she had confided in him—not too much, but she had told him more than anyone but Tante Héloise knew. It was so easy to talk to him. There he was, so big and strong and solid, and she could lean on him and be safe.
Except that she couldn’t.
It was the temptation of him. He made her want things she had never wanted before. Never before had a man tempted her as a man. But he was so beautiful. Whenever he touched her, just a brush of the hand, it was enough to send heat coursing through her. She could feel his touch like a flame.
In the past, there had been men who wanted to tempt her—the theaters and concert halls had been full of them—but they had raised no answering emotion in her. And Louvois had filled her with disgust.
Why did it have to be this man, who did not even like her? He was kind and sympathetic, but it was kindness born of pity. She had no use for pity. She despised it.
It seemed a waste of the vicomte’s beautiful plumbing, but perhaps she should start taking cold baths.
Chapter Twelve
The chill of late October crept into the corridor when they all gathered once more for their morning audience with the vicomte. Ned didn’t know how he looked, but he felt haggard. He had not slept well and that was unusual. All his life he had slept well, and he resented the disturbed night he had just suffered.
She had kept invading his dreams. It was infuriating. She had no business doing so. He didn’t even like her. She was hard and prickly and took offense at every little thing. There was nothing soft or attractive about her.
Except…
Except that when she had fallen asleep in her chair yesterday, she had looked so different. Vulnerable. The little frown marks had disappeared, and the tightness around her mouth had softened. The frozen mask she habitually wore had melted away and given him a glimpse of the beauty that lay beneath it.
This was preposterous! If he didn’t get hold of himself, he would be writing poetry next. She had no interest in him, and he had none in her—at least, no more than an intellectual curiosity. Puzzles had always intrigued him, and he couldn’t help wondering about the secrets she was hiding. It was no different, really, from wondering about the mysteries of the past, why things had turned out as they did, why people had chosen as they had.
It was curiosity that drew his eyes to her. Nothing more.
She was standing a little apart from the others, looking out, wrapped in a drab black cloak, always in black. Perhaps she had gone for an early morning walk. If so, it was sensible of her to keep the cloak on. It was always cold in these corridors, and she was too thin.
Where she was standing, by the slitted window, the light outlined her profile, her surprisingly elegant profile. But she shouldn’t be standing by the window—it was even colder there. He moved toward her.
Her hand was at her neck, fingering the brooch that closed her cloak at the collar. It was an odd one—about three inches across, with rounded stones arranged like a rosette in a setting of dull metal.
“An unusual piece,” he said.
She jumped, as if startled by his presence. Did she think he had been offended by the way she ran off the day before? He offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
“Unusual?” she said. “I suppose so.” She offered a polite smile of her own.
“Ugly.” Delphine had come up beside them and wrinkled her nose. “It is ugly and unfashionable. You should have sold that instead of my pearls.”
The child certainly clung to her resentments. Ned frowned at her, but she paid him no attention.
Marguerite sighed. “I am sorry, Delphine, but my mother gave this to me, and her mother gave it to her. Maman used to wear it to clos
e her cloak, too. It is the only thing of hers that I have.”
Antoine joined them and huffed a short, bitter laugh. “Typical. He lies there on all the wealth the family has ever had, and the rest of us cannot touch it. You, at least, have a brooch, however ugly it may be.”
Delphine sniffed and turned away with a toss of her curls.
Ned, however, had not lost interest in the brooch. “May I?” he asked, reaching out a hand toward her collar. She started to pull back but then tilted her head back and held still. He lifted the brooch with a finger and peered at it intently. “I am no expert, but the style is indeed antique. It may be very old indeed. Are the stones real?”
“I doubt it. They are so dull that I have always assumed they are glass.” She looked down, avoiding his eyes, and ran her finger over the smooth surface of the stones.
He stepped back but continued to look at the brooch. It intrigued him. There was something about the design. “Glass? Perhaps,” he said. “But if it is actually medieval, gems would not be cut with facets and might look dull to the modern eye.”
That caught Delphine’s attention. “Gems? Is it valuable then? Could the stones be recut?”
“Delphine…” Marguerite sighed.
“If it is a family heirloom, it should be mine. It is my family, after all.” Delphine began to reach out for it, her eyes shining.
Ned caught her hand. “Stop that. It is Marguerite’s brooch.” When she seemed about to erupt, he added placatingly, “Besides, much of the value is in the sentiment, not in the gemstones.”
For a moment, Delphine’s reaction was uncertain. Then she tossed her head and said, “It is an ugly piece. Marguerite may keep it.” She stepped away, ignoring the others.
Marguerite gave a short laugh. “How kind of Delphine to allow me to keep my own brooch.”
Ned was not amused, but before he could say anything, the doctor appeared in the doorway to bid them enter. He looked much the same as usual, neither pleased nor displeased. When Antoine asked if there had been any change in his great-grandfather’s condition, a slight shake of the head was his only response.
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