He dropped down to his knees before her and softly repeated the question.
Dumbly, Leona shook her head.
“Leona—” Gently, he reached out to pull her hand away from her heart and to enfold it in one of his own. "Tell me.”
“No.” The single word came out on a soft breath of air.
Deveraux swore and dropped her hand. He bowed his head a moment, then rose and ran his hand through his thick black hair. He paced before the sofa.
“I know about the rumors,” he said harshly and grimaced. “I know about Miss Benedict. She has been sharply reprimanded—more by Chrissy than me!” he added, a ghost of a reluctant smile pulling at his lips. “Obviously, you also have become aware of what the servants are saying or you would not be hiding in here.”
That stung. Her eyes flashed as she straightened her body and folded her hands in her lap. “I am not hiding!”
“No? Then why do I come in here to find you cowering?”
“I was merely uncertain as to your reaction. I didn’t know—” She stopped, compressing her lips tightly as color swept up her cheeks.
“Didn’t know if I believed them or not? Confound it, woman, how could you for a moment imagine . . .” He stared at her, then swore under his breath. He walked to a nearby cabinet to pour himself a glass of port. He looked inquiringly at Leona. She shook her head. Grimly he tossed back the contents of the glass.
“Not since that first half hour after I met you have I believed you were involved,” he said distinctly, biting out each word. “Each day I spend in your company, I see how ridiculous it was to hold the idea for even thirty minutes!”
“Thank you,” she murmured, looking down at her hands.
“Still, that doesn’t explain why you are cowering in here. It doesn’t seem natural for you to cave into lies.”
“I am not cowering. I just wish to avoid scenes.”
“You do not seem to have that notion normally,” he observed caustically.
“That is different.”
“How so?” he demanded. “No, please don’t turn your head away. I wish to understand.”
She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know.”
“You are quick to defend others or to defend ideas. Why can’t you now? . . .Oh!”he said, pausing.
He crossed back to the sofa with quick long strides and sat down beside her, searching her face. “Lucy was right. You can’t defend yourself, can you? You can fight for anyone and anything else but not for yourself. Why is that?”
Leona squirmed. His words were more accurate than she cared to admit. “I-I believe people should accept themselvesas they are. If they cannot. . .” She looked up into his eyes, searching for understanding for the thoughts she couldn’t put into words.
She became lost in the glittering blue depths of his eyes. Suddenly there was a warmth there. The image of sharply-cut gems gave way to the velvety softness of blue cornflowers. The rigidity in his jaw muscles eased, allowing a smile to pull up on the corners of his lips and light his eyes. He reached out a gentle hand to caress the side of her face. Instinctively she pulled back, then stopped when he paused with a fleeting expression of pain in his eyes.
“How I have hurt you,” he murmured, shaking his head sadly.
“No! No! Not you! How could you?” She caught his hand between her own and boldly carried it to the side of her cheek, tilting her head to fit in the curve of his calloused palm.
“I have railed at you for all the good you have done, saying you shouldn’t, that you should leave everything to a man. Yet, in all honesty, if you did, you would not be the Leona I admire—the Leona I have come to love,” he finished on such a whisper that Leona wondered if she heard right.
His head bent towards hers, his hands grasping her shoulders, pulling her nearer. Slowly, gently, giving her time to pull away if she felt she must, his lips settled over hers.
Leona sighed, her hands coming up to his head to touch the thick pelt of black hair that curled over his collar. Against her lips Deveraux groaned. Leona leaned into him, questing, curious. Her blood sang in her ears, and a curious coiling, tingling feeling came up from her toes.
Deveraux ran his hand down her back and around the curve of her spine until he could pick her up and shift her into his lap. “Oh, my proud beauty, my lioness,” he murmured against her lips, “how could we have hurt you so?”
She parted her lips to deny his words, but no sound could come, for he covered her mouth with his own, his kiss a fierce apology and demand. Willingly she answered his kiss, her kiss a passionate denial of what he would not let her say aloud.
When their lips finally parted, he leaned his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged, his hands trembling. “My God, Leona,” he managed hoarsely. He lifted his head up to stare blindly at the ceiling as he clutched her tightly to him. Then he released her and set her gently back beside him on the sofa.
