No, he had not told her, and she had not asked. She had not asked him anything personal. To do so would be to invite intimate conversation. She did not want such converse with him. It was hard enough to keep him at a distance. She was better off not knowing about him, wasn’t she? Oh, but it was too late now.
She knew. She felt. For him.
“I know you resent me for the decisions I made. I’ll tell you, I don’t regret it. I did what I had to do for the greater good of the family. If you had been in my shoes, you would have done the same.”
Was this her grandmother’s attempt at a backhanded apology? Her face gave nothing away. Cold old fish.
“I am nothing like you,” Lisbeth said with conviction. “I would never have abandoned one of my own. I would have ridden out the storm, held the faith, and protected what was mine.”
Her grandmother studied her for a moment. She nodded. “And you have done so, admirably. I wasn’t sure you had the gumption, but it seems you are stronger than even you yourself thought.”
“A compliment? It is ill-timed. None of it matters—for I have lost everything!” Lisbeth desperately wanted to leave.
“We have lost too,” her grandmother said in a whisper.
“Do not speak to me of loss.”
“If society accepts you after this farce you are playing at, then there may be hope of you returning to the family.”
Family. This woman may be her blood, but she was no longer her family. “I only want to know of my sister.”
“Marie is well—married Lord Fenwick last June.”
“I know. I read the announcement. Is she happy?”
Lisbeth remembered clearly the day of her sister’s wedding. It had been a bright June day, warm but with a cool breeze that sent the gowns of the female guests flapping against their legs. She had hidden within her carriage across the street to watch the bride and groom emerge from St George’s Church in Hanover Square. Lisbeth should have been on the steps with the other guests, offering hugs of congratulations, and sharing in her sister’s joy, attending the wedding breakfast and toasting to the happy couple. Instead, she had spent the whole morning worrying that Lord Fenwick may not be the man he purported to be. Was he a good man? A gentle soul who would never lay a finger on Marie? Would he treat her with respect and kindness? She did not want Marie to suffer the same fate as she had.
Tears had streamed down Lisbeth’s face, and she cursed the fates that had put her in such a position. She should have been shedding tears of joy but instead it felt more like Marie was being torn from her heart a second time.
Her grandmother frowned at her now. “Her husband appears to be doting towards her and really, she could not have hoped for a better match, considering.”
“Considering she is related to me you mean?” She flashed her eyes to show her anger but the woman before her did not react.
“You put us all in a position where we had no choice. Don’t you see?”
Was she pleading for her to understand? She knew it would not have been easy for them. Who would want to marry the sister of a suspected murderer?
She looked over to where Bellamy was standing, drink in hand and gazing at the ceiling. He may have no family, but at least they had probably loved him.
“Be wary, my dear. There are still those who would wish you ill.”
“I am used to looking after myself,” she replied. “I would hate for you to lose sleep over me. Do have a good evening.”Tell my sister I miss her…
She was proud as she walked away. She had not let it show how much her grandmother’s cool reserve had hurt her, ripped her heart to shreds. What had she expected this to be? A sweet family reunion? It was better this way she told herself. This way she wouldn’t be lulled into thinking the old woman still cared for her.
Oliver studied the countess as she excused herself from her grandmother and began the walk across the room towards him. She was looking directly at him. Odd! He felt no burning sensation anywhere in the region of his forehead. He was beginning to feel warm in another region though. He took another sip of his drink and rolled it on his tongue as he continued to hold her gaze.
He swallowed. Lord, she was perfection! She was artless in her movements and yet the sway of her hips told an ancient story that his loins understood completely.
He must look away.
He couldn’t.
He watched her watching him.
His heart pounded violently. Her every step was grace; her breasts moved up and down slowly in her bodice like music for the eyes. Every shimmer of the emerald material as it moved around her body was like whispers of an enchantment. He was mesmerized by her. Every painful breath he held told him he was mad to think of her this way. Every beat of his heart told him he was a fool.
She was nearly in front of him and he blinked. What an idiot he must look. He had to remember they were nothing to each other—she had made that clear enough. Just partners in anarrangement that was starting to show more holes than a match girl’s shawl.
