“Where is Papa?”
“Why does he do nothing?”
Zoe glanced back. They huddled in the doorway, complaining and objecting, but they came no farther and made no attempt to stop Marchmont.
No, that hadn’t changed, in any event. For all their noise, for all the complaining and criticizing, they kept their distance.
He walked out onto the little balcony.
He held up his hand.
The crowd quieted.
“Yes, yes, I know,” he said. “Everyone wants to see Miss Lexham.”
He did not shout. He scarcely raised his deep voice. But he made it stronger in some way, and it seemed to her that people on the other side of the square must hear him clearly.
“Very well,” he said. He turned to her and made a small gesture, signaling her to join him. She looked down at the long fingers, slightly curled, bidding her come. She looked up at his handsome face. A shock of pale hair, the color of early morning sunlight, fell over one eyebrow. He wore a faint smile. She could not tell what sort of smile it was, and this made her uneasy.
She reminded herself that she’d known nothing about Karim or the world in which he lived, yet she’d soon learned to navigate its treacherous pathways. She’d learned how to amuse and please him. As a result, she’d won his affection and a great fortune in jewels.
This would be easier, she told herself. All she needed to do was find a way into the world to which she properly belonged.
She had come home quietly, Lord Winterton so determined to avert the uproar, which, in the end, could not be averted. They’d kept her hidden in her father’s house for two days, behind closed windows and curtains. She’d felt as though she’d never left the harem.
She stepped through the window and onto the balcony.
The crowd fell silent.
So did her sisters.
Hundreds of faces turned upward. Every pair of eyes focused on her.
She went cold, then hot. She felt dizzy. But it was a wonderful dizziness, the joy of release.
Now at last she stood in the open.
Here I am, she thought.Home at last,at last. Yes,look at me. Look your fill. I’m not invisible anymore.
She felt his big, warm hand clasp hers. The warmth rushed into her heart and made it hurry. She was aware of her pulse jumping against her throat and against her wrist, so close to his. The heat spread into her belly and down, to melt her knees.
I’m going to faint, she thought. But she couldn’t let herself swoon merely because a man had touched her. Not now, at any rate. Not here. She made herself look up at him.
He wore the faintest smile—of mockery or amusement she couldn’t tell. Behind his shuttered eyes she sensed rather than saw a shadow.
She remembered the brief glimpse she’d had, of pain, when she’d mentioned his brother. It had vanished in an instant, but she’d seen it in his first, surprised reaction: the darkness there, bleak and empty and unforgettable.
She gazed longer than she should have into his eyes, those sleepy green eyes that watched her so intently yet shut her out. And at last he let out a short laugh, and raised her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips against her knuckles.
Had they been in the harem, she would have sunk onto the pillows and thrown her head back, inviting him.
But they were not in the harem and he’d declined to make her his wife.
And she was not a man, to let her lust rule her brain.
This man was not a good candidate for a spouse.
There had been a bond between them once. Not a friendship, really. In childhood, the few years between them had been a chasm, as the difference in their genders had been. Still, he’d been fond of her once, she thought, in his own fashion.
