“You don’t even remember, do you?” she breathed in outrage.
Impatience flared around him. “Remember what?”
She leaned in, her plate nearly poking into his waistcoat. “A year ago, in the Kitburns’ garden. You and Lady Langley were talking with Lord Brockhurst and Mr. Severton.”
He frowned. “What of it?”
“Severton told you about their wager. That Brockhurst had won because he’d gotten a kiss from a wallflower. And you replied that he’d do as well to kick a half-dead mongrel because there was no sport in seducing a wallflower.” Pain and vindication made her voice tremble. “Well,Iwas that wallflower.”
She didn’t know what she expected as a response. Embarrassment. An apology, perhaps. Instead, his eyes darkened, as did his aura, his anger filling and vibrating in the sliver of space between them.
“That’s it?” His voice was menacingly soft. “This incident… it explains why you’ve been a judgmental shrew toward me since the moment we met?”
Her jaw slackened. “How dare you—”
“How dare I what? Accuse you of being something that you’re not?” His fury whipped through her. “The shoe doesn’t feel quite as comfortable on the other foot, does it?”
Oh no, he didn’t. He wasn’t going to shift the blame onto her.
“Iam not the one at fault. I’m not the one who said unforgivable things—”
“Did it ever occur to you to ask me about that night? Instead of holding a grudge, of blaming me, did it ever cross your mind to just bloodyask?”
“And what would you have said if I did? That I misheard the entire incident?” she said scornfully.
“You didn’t mishear anything. I did say there’s no sport in seducing a wallflower,”—he said, his tone furious—“because it is adamned dishonorable activity. There’s no pride to be had in taking advantage of a female—of anyone who is vulnerable. That is the despicable act of a coward. The same kind of bastard, incidentally, who would kick a hapless mongrel.”
She blinked at his thunderous expression—at the righteous wrath blazing around him. He believed his words… he wasn’t lying. His explanation prickled through her like the painful, sensations of a reawakening limb. Her lips numb, all she could manage was a faint, “Oh.”
“Howseriousthe two of you appear!” Rosie’s cheerful tones sliced through the thick tension. Poised by the screen, she was giving Polly and Revelstoke a quizzical look. “What scintillating topic are you discussing so intently, and may I join in?”
Polly wetted her lips, guilt warring with mortification.
Turning his back to her, Revelstoke bowed to Rosie. “It’s nothing of import.” His smooth words were a sharp contrast to his smoldering aura.
Rosie gave his arm a coquettish tap. “Are you certain you two aren’t keeping secrets from me?”
“Not at all. It is just that your charming presence eclipses my memory of the inconsequential conversation,” he drawled.
If a hole were to open up in the parquet floor, Polly would have leapt right in.
“Well, never mind, then.” Dimpling, Rosie said, “Mama has agreed to chaperone a tour of the garden, my lord. Will you come, too, Pols?”
“No.” Heat nudged horrifyingly behind Polly’s eyes. Setting her untouched plate down on the nearest table, she blurted, “That is, I, um, just remembered I have something to do after breakfast. If you’ll excuse me.”
Before the tears could fall, she turned from them both and fled for the door.
Behind her, she heard Revelstoke say, “Shall we, Miss Primrose?”
Chapter Twelve
An hour later, after a good and cleansing cry, Polly sat at her escritoire. She was trying to compose a letter to her sister Violet. The closest sibling to her in age, Vi was married to Viscount Carlisle and lived most of the year in Scotland with her husband and their young son.
Pen poised above the parchment, Polly tried to collect her thoughts.
Dear Violet,
I hope the weather is fair in Scotland.(Too mundane.)
