“I suppose in your circle thereisa subtle difference between a whore and a mistress. It’s what allows you to bow your head before God every Sunday, I suppose. To go home and kiss your wife. But in my less sophisticated circle, there is no difference at all.”
“Don’t pretend you believe in God any more than I do.”
“That is hardly the point I am making!”
“And believe me,” he continued as though she hadn’t spoken, “none of what you returned to me is what I would purchase for a mistress.”
“No, too opaque.”
“You’re right. I like them in French shifts. I like it so sheer I can see every cleft and curve.”
“You are disgusting—”
“I amhonest.”
They were flinging words back and forth so quickly they were cutting off the end of each other’s sentences. Now it was her turn to scoff.
“Honest! Are you this honest with your betrothed,Cote?Does Lady Frances know what you were doing to me not ten minutes after you left her on the dance floor?”
He only smiled, the edges of it sharp as knives. “Probably.”
“But you don’tgive a straw for her, of course. You told me that too.”
“She knows what our marriage will be. Do you think she doesn’t take lovers? I suspect she has one as we speak. This is how it is for people like me. This is how it is for every married couple at that ball last night.”
She sniffed, chin held high. “Not for my parents. Not for my aunt. Not…not for me.”
His eyes narrowed, but he finally looked away. She sagged at the removal of his dark gaze, as though it had been a stake pinning her in place.
“You’ve had your perfect love. You’ve had your perfect marriage.” His voice was quiet, but no softer. “No one is going to live up to that. No one will ever be as wonderful as that boy you knew. Because you won’t ever let them be.”
He swung his gaze back to her, unfathomably black. “Were you expecting me to be as soft and doting as some sixteen-year-old in his calf love? No wonder you are disappointed. I wasn’t capable of that even then. I am not some soft and delicatechildto go mooning about, falling in love with your blue eyes and your shining hair.”
“No. All that has been beaten out of you.”
He held her gaze for a long moment, until he began to sneer. “I see. You have to believe that, don’t you? I’m the proof of your pet theory.”
“You’re hardly doing much to convince me otherwise.”
“So perhaps I’m broken. Perhaps I’m incapable of softness. Doesn’t that make me an object of your compassion, my Mary Magdalene, my goddess Eleos?”
But her response was equally scathing. “I’m to be your whore out of pity, am I?”
He flinched at that. He would probably always flinch at the mention of pity.
She walked towards him, and he was wary as he watched her approach.
“You used my husband when you kissed me. You called on his name and told me he would want me tolive, when all you wanted was to use me. There is nothing, Lord Cotereigh, nothing you can do in this world or the next that will ever make me forgive you.”
She set a hand on his chest where she’d once tucked that letter away, thinking she knew him, thinking she loved him, and she forced him backwards from her room, closing the door soundly in his face.
Twenty-Four
Lady Pemberthy was atthe foot of the stairs. Her white face and aghast expression made it clear she’d heard everything. Wonderful.
She pressed a hand to her broad bosom, flinching as he strode past.
“I believe your niece will need you.” Even to him, his voice sounded icy. “I’ll see myself out.”
