“I imagine you’ve heard about the wager, then.”
She could have groaned. His knowledge of the bet exposed her. If Carlisle, a former vicar, had heard about it, then who in heaven’s name had not? In a flash of hysteria, she considered she might just as well have gone parading down Bond Street in nothing but her chemise… or less…
It seemed everyone knew something she’d considered to be the most intimate moment of her life. But that they knew the other…
She would not cry.
“Don’t fancy yourself winning it.” Why was she striking out at Lord Carlisle? He’d never been anything but kind to her.
“Of course not.” And, of course, she had no choice but to believe him.
Rhoda barked out something between a laugh and a scoffing sound.
“That would explain Kensington’s behavior last week,” he pointed out softly.
Rhoda nodded. “And that of Miss Redfield’s, I’d venture to guess.” She could much easier think of this man as a vicar than an earl. He wasn’t nearly arrogant enough.
“May I ask you a question, Miss Mossant?” His voice held no demand, only polite inquisitiveness.
She considered a snippy retort but caught herself in time. Really, he’d done nothing to merit her ill will. “You may.”
She felt the air stir as he turned his head to stare at her. Rhoda shifted herself on the bench so that she could face him fully.
“What do you intend to do about it?”
Rhoda held herself stiffly. “Why would you think there was anything I could do?” Except for Emily’s plan. But she wouldn’t share that with him. She certainly didn’t relish being laughed at.
He did not attempt to answer her rhetorical question. Instead, he merely stared at her, looking somewhat perplexed.
She’d forgotten the purity of this man’s eyes. Blue like the clearest of days. When he focused so intently upon her, she could feel his gaze all the way to her toes.
“From the moment I met you, you have proven to be a woman of strength. Therefore, I simply assumed…” He tilted his head questioningly.
For a long moment, she couldn’t think. He seemed to see into her very soul. Had he done that with all of his parishioners or only those of the female variety?
And if he could see into her soul, surely, he’d not be talking to her now.
She swallowed hard. “Sometimes we lose our strength.”
She’d not meant to say it. Something about him drew her deepest thoughts. His quiet reassurance pulled the words from her.
“Do we lose it? Or do we relinquish it willingly?”
If she laughed at his intuition, at his astute judgment, then perhaps she wouldn’t feel so compelled to examine herself to discover the answer. That would explain her unkind comments earlier. She’d known, on a deeper level somehow, that she’d best defend herself against him. Against his kindness, his purity.
“Such foolishness.” She forced a harsh laugh out.
He continued staring at her, as though she’d not said a word. And then, “You can always find it again. Don’t let them win, Miss Mossant.”
At his words, Rhoda’s laughter froze. Her lips trembled. She wanted to tell him the truth but could not form the words. As heat burned behind her eyes, Rhoda finally turned away.
For a terrifying moment, she’d had to fight the urge to bury her face in his neck, to inhale his clean masculine scent, to absorb his goodness.
And he’d probably have let her. He might be an angel, but he was also a man. He’d be susceptible to feminine allure.
But adding water to dye didn’t purify the dye, it colored the water. She couldn’t do that to him. She couldn’t cast her sin on him.
Justin had assumed her secret was the obvious—her indiscretions with St. John. But sitting there, perceiving the torment behind her eyes, he wondered if it might be something else.
