She anticipated an embarrassing scene at that point. What she didn't expect was a very calm, "You'll have to excuse Anastasia, gentlemen. I have a matter to discuss with her that requires privacy."
That, of course, was not met with agreeably, considering the men around her had been almost fighting to retain her attention. It was Adam Sheffield who pretty much summed up, or tried to sum up, their general reaction with, "Now see here, Malory, you can't just—"
Christopher cut that off curtly. "Can't I? Beg to differ, dear boy. A husband has rather pertinent rights, some of which even come in quite handy."
"Husband?"
That was twice more repeated in the shocked silence Christopher left behind him. He didn't stay to elaborate, had no intention of explaining himself. He simply took Anastasia's hand and led her out of the parlor.
She was too shocked herself to have protested, not that she wanted to protest. He stopped out in the hall to merely say, "Your room will do, lead on."
She did, up the stairs, down another hall, another, then one more. It was a large house. He said nothing else on the way. She was too nervous to speak herself.
Her room was cluttered. The maids didn't get that far in their cleaning until the afternoon. The bed was unmade. The dancing costume she had worn last night was draped over a chair. Several of her new gowns covered another chair—she'd had trouble deciding what to wear this morning, not used to all her choices being so fancy.
He took a moment to survey the room, after closing the door. His eyes would linger on that bright gold skirt with the bangled hem. When his glance came back to her, it was distinctly questioning.
"I wore it last night at Victoria's masquerade," she explained.
"Did you? How—apropos."
His tone was just too dry for her frazzled nerves, making her reply stiffly, "Wasn't it? Nothing like presenting the truth and having no one believe it. But then most fools are made, they aren't grown."
He actually chuckled. "How true, and something I've become rather adept at myself lately."
"Making fools?"
"No."
With that simple answer, the stiffness went out of her, leaving only the nervousness. And she wasn't going to ask how he thought he'd made a fool of himself. She could name several times that she felt he had, but wouldn't.
Instead, she suggested reasonably, "Shall we discuss why you're here?"
"You mean you weren't expecting me, after launching yourself among the very people I socialize with?" He accepted her blush in answer, but still explained, "I'd heard the niece of a nobleman was calling herself by your name. I came here to find out why. Imagine my surprise ..."
She had expected his surprise, and his anger. She'd seen the anger, but it wasn't present at the moment. Why it wasn't was what concerned her.
So she asked pointedly, "Why aren't you angry?"
"What makes you think I'm not?"
"You conceal it well, Gajo. Very well, what exactly have I done that you object to? Present myself as a lady when you feel I don't have that right?"
"Actually, what I'd like to know is why you've taken on this identity that isn't yours."
"It was not my idea to do, Christoph. I was hurt and angry enough to go about my way, never to see you again. But my grandmother—"
"Your grandmother," he cut in. "I saw the grave, Anna. Was it hers?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry."
"There is no need to be. It was her time to go, and she was pleased to rest there in that lovely clearing of yours within sight of a road—symbolic of a Gypsy's existence. The worst of my grief is gone. She had long suffered with pain, you see, which made her welcome an end to it, so I can't begrudge her that."
"I'll put a marker—"
"No," she cut in now. "No, it was her wish to keep her name to herself, to have no evidence of it left behind. But as I was saying, Christoph, she still insisted you and I were fated to be. And William, who was traveling with us and heard her, thought you might benefit by being shown that appearances and origins don't mean that much, that— other things—are more important."
