If he’d been able to imagine it, perhaps he could have saved himself from what was to come. A grief that would reshape his life the way a tsunami reshaped a coastline.
Lucien paused next to Delacorte and Hardy to sip at his cup of ratafia. Together they watched the dancers swirl (and occasionally collide), and enjoyed the respite from worrying about the ship.
Angelique had gone to play the piano so one of the German boys could attempt a waltz with Mrs. Pariseau. Delilah had kindly consented to dance with Angus McDonald who, they were astonished to see, was finally smiling.
Dot was teaching Rose and Meggie how to dance the waltz, and they were all laughing together.
Bloody hell, all of this nonsense added up to happiness, Lucien thought. What a good life they had here.
“What’s the matter with St. Leger?” he asked Delacorte, gesturing with his chin.
For a moment, they all turned to regard the big man standing quietly against the wall.
“I think he’s just in love with his wife,” Delacorte correctly diagnosed.
“Ah. Tragedy, that,” Lucien said, idly. “A fatal condition, to be sure.”
Chapter Nineteen
Lorcan comported himself enthusiastically during a number of reels. He seemed to mind not a bit when she danced with others. He smiled and laughed. He drank very little.
But throughout the evening Daphne sensed his mood growing gradually more and more remote. As it did, her sense of unease ramped. She thought she understood the reason, but it was as if she were watching him drift out to sea on a boat that had slipped its mooring, and there was nothing she could do about it.
As he grew quieter and quieter, her stomach coiled tighter and tighter in tension.
By the time they left the ballroom, it was knotted completely.
He spoke not at all as they climbed the stairs to their suite.
She found herself chattering anyway, to fill the silence. “What a lovely evening. Perhaps I’ll learn to play an instrument, too. I thought Mrs. Pariseau played beautifully. Perhaps she has real talent.”
Inside their room, he shook himself out of his coat. Reflexively she took it from him to hang up on the little rack by the door.
“Lorcan, would you like a cup of tea before we sleep? It’s not too late to ring for one.”
“No. Thank you.”
“Some brandy?”
“No, thank you.” He had gone to stand before the fire, silently. She stood next to him, but he did not look up at her.
She stared at him, heart in her throat.
“Shall I help you with your cravat?” she asked quietly. She reached for the knot at his throat.
He shocked both of them by seizing her wrists.
And in silence, he held her fast. His expression was dark. And almost cold.
“Daphne,” he said.
She was too stunned to speak. Her breathing had gone panicked and swift.
“I. Am. Not. Your.Husband.”
His volume scarcely raised at all.
But each word somehow hurt her worse than the last, as if he beat her down like a nail in a plank.
