When she had believed him in love with her. And when she had thought herself in love with him.
Her pride would not allow her to back away. “You need not have chased after me to offer contrition. I would far prefer to be alone for a few moments.”
“I hardly chased you, Lady Philippa.”
“Mrs. Shaw,” she corrected him for the second time that evening.
It was his third attempt to nettle her, but she had neglected to offer a rebuttal for the first occasion, trying to maintain her calm. A calm which was far from her now.
She needed to collect her composure. To make certain she did not allow the Duke of Northwich to see any further weakness. Because shewasweak. And not just in the way she had supposed, feeling so vulnerable and broken in the wake of her discoveries of George’s lies. But in a different way.
Her traitorous body was aware of Northwich’s. His scent and nearness and the rigid angles of his body. The musculature and sinew hidden so cleverly beneath his elegant clothes. The masculine power of him. And his face. In the intervening years since they had first met at the fateful house party he had mentioned at the table, he had grown into the promise of his cheekbones and jaw. His sculpted lips invited the same thoughts of sin they once had, much to her shame, but he was even more handsome now, a man at home in his skin.
She could not deny it any longer.
But her attraction to him, unwanted though it may be, did not mean she had to like him. Nor did it mean she had to suffer his presence.
“Mrs. Shaw,” he repeated softly, his tone almost entreating. “I caused you upset, and for that I am sorry. It was not my intention to send you from the table, and I should not have spoken of your husband. His actions were his alone, and not yours.”
They may as well have been hers. Northwich could not possibly comprehend the guilt which was eating her from the inside out. She had been married to George. How had she failed to notice, in all that time, what he was truly doing? How had she ever given him her heart?
Why had she not doubted him?
She swallowed down the self-loathing which was never far. “I assure you that you do not hold so much sway over me as you would believe. I left the table because I am still troubled after these unsettling discoveries concerning my husband. My reaction had naught to do with you.”
That was a lie.
If he had not been at the table, she never would have left.
But then, neither would she have left if he had not been so cutting and cruel, peeling away all the niceties and striking at the very heart of the truth. Georgehadbeen a vile scoundrel. Northwich had only been speaking truth.
“As you would have it, madam,” he said curtly.
Good.
Mayhap her words had found their mark, sliding through his armor to burrow themselves into his flesh just as his had done to hers. She felt no joy in the knowledge, however.
“I require some time alone,” she said. “Five minutes, no more. If you would be so kind as to relay my intent to return to Tilly, I would be most appreciative.”
“You scarcely touched your plate. Did you even eat a bite of theréleve?”
The question took her by surprise. Startled, she studied him. His brow was furrowed, his sensual lips tightened in…what? Disapproval? Concern?
Surely not.
“You are not my keeper, Northwich,” she said, for whether or not she had eaten any of the veal—she had not—was hardly his concern.
She did not have an appetite.
She had not managed more than two spoons of the soup which had preceded it, either.
“If you do not eat, you will grow weak.”
His stern insistence was mystifying. No one had ever taken note of whether or not she had eaten before.
“I do eat,” she snapped, not liking the unexpected warmth burning to life within her. “The quantity is hardly your concern.”
Dark eyes danced over her face, taking in all of her. Taking in more of her, she was sure, than she wished for him to see. “You are pale.”
