“Remind me, when did you intend to return to Sussex, Miss Woodville?” Marchand finally said to her.
“In about a week.” Her voice was frayed. “I’ve a commitment to attend a meeting on behalf of both of my sisters in Sussex. I’m very much looking forward to seeing my family and friends.”
“And I am very much looking forward to your return,” Balfort admitted fervently.
Oh, to be so innocently, transparently, faultlessly honest, Marchand thought. To feel soentitledto hope.
“I’ll leave you to your visit,” Marchand said and made for the stairs.
Francis departed an hour later.
Haunted both by the last thing Francis had said to her before he’d bid her farewell and by the gutted expression on Marchand’s face when he’d lied about his name, Ginny wearily climbed the stairs.
She paused at the window on the second floor. She’d caught a glimpse of her cat friends. They were crouched outside, staring at each other, ears flattened.
They were squaring up for another fight.
“Who are you rooting for?” Gabriel’s tone was casual.
She gave a start.
She hadn’t even heard his approach.
She didn’t turn around.
She could already feel the heat radiating from his body. It took every ounce of her will not to lean back into him.
“Pumpkinhead—I call him that because of his big round ginger head—likes to do a lot of staring first, while Inkblot—I call him Inkblot because of the black blot on his white face—likes to get right into it first. I’ve never noticed an actual winner. The fur really does fly, however. In big tufts. And then it’s over.”
“These are friends of yours?” He sounded amused.
“They’re the nightly show from the window in my room.”
“I’m envious. My room is at the end of a corridor opposite a candle that snuffs out mysteriously. But I’ve an excellent view of the tops of ships.”
“Seems an exhausting way to go about a life. One fight per day, every day,” she mused.
“When you understand that they’re probably fighting over the rights to a female, it makes sense.”
She fell silent.
Suddenlyshewas seething.
Not necessarilyathim, but because of him.
And because of herself.
Because of her life.
Because the notion of him fighting Francis over her was ridiculous.
Francis would be dead in three seconds.
“How was your journey?” she asked politely, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.
“It was fine. Did Francis leave?”
“Yes,” she said shortly.
