He reached for a glass he had rested on the windowsill, breaking her gaze, and she noticed it was filled with wine. “You’re drinking,” she accused.
“On the contrary; I have yet to have a sip. But I thought you might like some.” At her start, he gave a half-smile. Not cocky or arrogant or pointedly sensual, like so many of his smiles had been, but an expression of genuine amusement. “Don’t look at me like that, little bird. There comes a point when there’s nothing else for it. Sometimes you need a little liquid courage.”
“You appear to need liquid courage often.”
“Live a day in my shoes and you might understand why.” He offered her the glass and this time she took it. The burgundy was rich and almost sour against her tongue, strong enough she made a face. At home, she only ever had ratafia or lemonade. But under his curious gaze, she took another, then another, until she’d finished the last of it.
“It’s not bad,” she said eventually.
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I’m not sure I want to.” She looked at him. “I’ve seen what it can do.”
His expression flickered, just for a moment, then he took the glass and put it carefully to one side. “If you are just going to lecture me, feel free to leave.”
Even a few hours ago, she might have done, if he had not apologised to her. But something had changed between them—or perhaps she was the one who had changed. Out here, in full view of the ballroom, he didn’t look like a rake capable of eating women’s hearts for breakfast. He just looked tired, the sharpness in his expression worn away, lines appearing that she hadn’t seen before.
Perhaps his reputation was as exhausting to maintain as her facade. Having people hate him had to be draining, just as trying to convince people to like her made her feel as though her energy was being sucked dry.
Earlier that evening, she had thought she could not hate him more, but now she thought perhaps she didn’t hate him at all. He was the same as her, just angrier. Maybe hurting more.
They stood in silence for a while, the soft air of early summer refreshing after the stifling heat of the ballroom, and she thought about how easy it was to be with him. No pointless conversation to fill the silence; he was as comfortable in it as she was. He had no expectations of her other than she should be herself, and that was remarkably freeing.
“So,” he drawled, dragging his attention back to her. “How did you enjoy yourself?”
“I didn’t meet anyone I wanted to marry.”
He tensed. “Is that so? It’s early days yet.”
“You know, not one of them asked me about my opinion on any matter we discussed. Or should I say,theydiscussed.”
A reluctant laugh broke from him, husky and low. Too intimate for the bright candlelight behind them. “Am I supposed to be surprised?”
“But why? Even the kind ones were . . .” She struggled to find a word. “Dismissive. Why is that?”
“Probably because they have greater respect for their opinions than yours.”
“Do you?”
He contemplated that for a moment, a crease appearing between his brows. “No,” he said eventually.
“Why is that?”
“Probably because I was never taught to respect my opinions.” Bitterness coated his words like the bite of November snow. “And despite all appearances to the contrary, you do have a brain.”
“A good thing you’re trying not to charm me,” she said, and he gave a snort.
“I rather suspect that ship has long since sailed.”
“And sunk.”
“In full view of the harbour.”
It was her turn to laugh—not a delicate thing, either. It came straight from her belly and erupted into the night air. He half turned, a line appearing between his brows.
“That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh,” he said. “Genuinely, I mean.”
“I could say the same about you.”
