But that was before.
Now he was everything every woman could want, and he knew it.
She desired him the way every other woman desired him.
It didn’t really mean anything. It certainly wouldn’t mean anything to him.
Still, at least she felt desire, finally, she told herself. If she could feel it with him, she’d feel it with someone else, someone who wanted her, who’d give his heart to her.
For now, she was grateful to be free. She was grateful to stand on this balcony and look out upon the hundreds of people below.
She squeezed his hand in thanks and let her mouth form a slow, genuine smile, of gratitude and happiness, though she couldn’t help glancing once up at him from under her lashes, to seek his reaction.
She glimpsed the heat flickering in the guarded green gaze.
Ah, he felt it, too: the powerful physical awareness crackling between them.
He released her hand. “We’ve entertained the mob for long enough,” he said. “Go inside.”
She turned away. The crowd began to stir and people were talking again, but more quietly. They’d become a murmuring sea rather than a roaring one.
“You’ve seen her,” he said, and his deep voice easily carried over the sea. “You shall see her again from time to time. Now go away.”
After a moment, they began to turn away, and by degrees they drifted out of the square.
Three
Marchmont had done nothing more than brush his lips over her knuckles.
It was more than enough.
He’d caught the scent of her skin and felt its softness, and the sensations lingered long after he let go and turned away.
Perhaps, after all, he should have said yes. Visions of Zoe dancing in veils swarmed into his brain again.
He pushed them away. He was not about to disrupt his life to marry a complete stranger, even for Lexham’s sake.
He turned his attention to the square. It was emptying, as he’d known it would. The mob’s excitement abated once they saw that the Harem Girl looked like any other attractive English lady. This was only the first and easiest part of the task he’d undertaken.
Part Two was the newspapers. Unlike the mob, they wouldn’t let go of a sensational story so easily. The stragglers in the square were mainly newspaper men. They wanted a story, and they’d make one up if necessary.
He reentered the library, where Zoe waited, her blue eyes brimming with an admiration and gratitude that even he, who couldn’t be bothered to read expressions, could comprehend. He didn’t know whether or not he believed what he saw in her face. A dozen years ago, he would have known what to believe. But a dozen years ago, Zoe would never have worn such a melting expression.
This wasn’t the Zoe he’d known all those years ago, he reminded himself. In any event, he didn’t need to know what was in her heart, any more than she needed to know what was in his. He’d promised to bring her into fashion, and that was all he needed to do.
He turned his attention elsewhere.
Her sisters hovered in the doorway, one black figure standing at each side of the frame and two with enormous bellies pacing in the corridor beyond.
A quartet of crows.
“Who died?” he said.
“Cousin Horatio,” said Augusta.
“Ah, the recluse on the Isle of Skye,” said Marchmont.
Lexham had taken him there after Gerard died. Some thought it a strange place to take a grieving fifteen-year-old, but Lexham, as always, knew what to do. In hindsight, Marchmont saw how wise his guardian had been not to send the new Duke of Marchmont back to school. There he’d have to hide his grief. There, among his friends, he’d have no Gerard to boast of, no letters from Gerard to look forward to. Skye and the eccentric Cousin Horatio held no associations with Gerard or their dead parents. It was far away from the world in which they’d grown up, and it was beautiful. He and Lexham walked. They fished. They read books and talked. Sometimes even Cousin Horatio joined the conversation.
