And Christian was doomed.
“I can’t,” he said. A token protest, and she knew it.
“You can.” She leaned farther forward in her chair, and he felt himself lean toward her as well, as if he had been tugged by a string. “You must. You understand now how I feel, I know you do. And you cannot deny me the chance to put things right.”
He could have denied her, he thought later. Heshouldhave denied her. But he was an appalling idiot.
He looked into her eyes, blue as the midday sky, and told her yes.
Chapter 7
Matilda tried not to stare at Ashford too obviously as she sat across from him in the post-chaise.
He was glowering. He had not stopped glowering since they’d left London together that morning, a week after she’d accosted him at his apartments. His tall, lean body was ranged into the corner of the post-chaise, his garments neat as a pin, his black beard closely trimmed. They were six hours into their journey, and she was not sure he had had a single pleasant thought. At no point had the stern tension of his body eased.
She considered opening her sketchbook and drawing a picture of him. She wanted ink, she thought, for him—precise black lines, no shading.
She would title it,The Marquess in His Sulks,perhaps.
PossiblySurliness Unbound.
He had scowled when she’d informed him she did not intend to bring along a maid. He had looked quite thunderous when she’d demanded he pick her up in the mews at Number Twelve an hour before dawn, so that she could sneak out of her house with her traveling trunks and Margo none the wiser.
It was absurd. What had he expected, a decorous arrival at her front door? How else was she to smuggle out her pigments and oils, her brushes and stretchers, without arousing the interest of everybody in the house?
She had rather hoped to wait until he was in a better temper to reveal the last of her secrets, but thus far, he had refused to be cajoled into any semblance of good humor.
That morning, she had remarked on the unusually chilly October weather. Ashford had responded with a wordless glare.
She had proposed as they left the outskirts of London that they stop for a warm beverage. She’d inquired quite prettily if he took coffee or tea.
He had stared daggers at her and responded, “No.”
Which, honestly, made no sense. It was not a yes-or-no question.
“Chocolate,” she said now.
His fingers, which had been tapping out a jerky rhythm on his knee, stilled. He looked up and met her gaze. His pale gray eyes were glacial. “Pardon?”
“Chocolate,” she said again. “That is the only explanation I can come up with. I asked if you prefer tea or coffee, and you said, ‘No.’ Sincenois not a reasonable response in that scenario, I assume you meant that you prefer something else entirely. Chocolate. With or without sugar? I prefer sugar, of course, but you seem the type to like your drink as bitter as gall.”
There. She’d seen it. It had been quick as a flash, but she was quite certain his lips had twitched.
He found her amusing. She tried to ignore the bolt of satisfaction that shot through her.
“I do,” he said, “prefer chocolate.”
Truly, it sounded as though the admission had been dragged out of him against his will.
“With or without sugar?”
“With.”
Matilda felt the corners of her mouth turn up. She had not expected that. Christian de Bord, the Marquess of Ashford, had a fondness for sweets.
“Do you know,” he said suddenly, “that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you smile?”
She leaned back, startled. “Is it?”
