“I’d hardly say that.” A beat of time slunk past. “I might find some uses for you.”
Sudden tension snapped through the air, his implication clear. A ray of moonlight streamed through the window at her side, and he thought he might detect a blush-stained cheek.
Her gaze met his and held. “But you already have, my lord.”
“Oh?”
His cock thickened, and his mouth went dry. The directness of her gaze did that to him.
Yet another reason for his marriage proposal occurred to him. And this reason wasn’t simplyanother, but possiblytruer. As his wife, her direct gaze would be his. Not as a possession, but to possess. He wanted to capture it and hold it and transform it with desire. He wanted it to bend to him, but not break.
“I’ve been very useful in locating your former lover, and now your son.”
Right.Right.
Of course.Of course.
Her words were the splash of cold water he needed.
“Now I shall put the question to you.” Her eyes narrowed. She’d recovered herself and was now on the offensive. “If you’re married to me, then how will you marry someone else?”
“As I’ve explained, marriage has never been high on my list of priorities.”
“You might change your mind about the lineage of the marquessate sometime in the future. We humans can be mercurial.”
He snorted. “I don’t give two tosses about continuing the Asquith line. Nick has a legitimate son. The family line is secure as far as I’m concerned. Geoffrey can carry it forward.”
“But—”
Impatient with this line of questioning, he cut her off. “That was mysonin Flick Doyle’s lair.”
The light of knowledge shone in Hortense’s eyes. She knew it, too.
“He is the spitting image of me at that age.”
“You need to understand something,” she said slowly. “Doyle and those other boys, they are his family.”
“Iam his family.”
She gave her head a slow shake. “He won’t see it that way.”
“I shall remove him from there.”
“And you will do anything?”
“Anything.”
“Even marry a guttersnipe?”
The way she posed the question struck him like a blow. For she wasn’t accusatory or bitter, but completely and utterly matter of fact.
“You are more than that, Hortense. You know how to read. You speak French.” He searched for more—better—words. “You’reyou.”
He hesitated, unsure he had the right to ask the next question. But he must nonetheless. “What is the story of Hortense Marchand? Or is that Amelie?”
“How do you know—” Realization lit across her face. “Mrs. Ditch used the name.”
Jamie nodded. “How did that little girl who spoke French and could read end up in the workhouse and in Flick Doyle’s pickpocket gang? What is the story ofyou?”
