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This man would be different. That much was obvious.
“After you, madam,” he said.
She walked into the library, her heart picking up speed.
He followed her in, then walked straight to the central window. He flung open the curtains.
A roar went up from the crowd.
Zoe stood stock-still, staring at the back of his head, at the familiar pale blond hair. Yes, he’d always been the boldest of them all, though everyone used to say it was Gerard who was the reckless one. But bold and reckless were not the same thing.
She was aware of footsteps in the corridor behind her, and her sisters’ voices becoming more audible. In another moment her brothers would hear the noise outside, and they’d emerge from their lair and…
And it would make no difference at all. They would do the same as they’d always done. In childhood none of the others had ever been able to stand up to him. Now he’d been a duke for almost half his life, accustomed to do as he pleased, accustomed to being deferred to.
The library had tall windows, like doors, giving out onto a narrow balcony. Marchmont threw open a pair of windows.
Her sisters let out a collective gasp.
“Good grief!” one cried.
“He’s mad!”
“Drunk, is more like it.”
“Where is Papa?”
“Why does he do nothing?”
Zoe glanced back. They huddled in the doorway, complaining and objecting, but they came no farther and made no attempt to stop Marchmont.
No, that hadn’t changed, in any event. For all their noise, for all the complaining and criticizing, they kept their distance.
He walked out onto the little balcony.
He held up his hand.
The crowd quieted.
“Yes, yes, I know,” he said. “Everyone wants to see Miss Lexham.”
He did not shout. He scarcely raised his deep voice. But he made it stronger in some way, and it seemed to her that people on the other side of the square must hear him clearly.
“Very well,” he said. He turned to her and made a small gesture, signaling her to join him. She looked down at the long fingers, slightly curled, bidding her come. She looked up at his handsome face. A shock of pale hair, the color of early morning sunlight, fell over one eyebrow. He wore a faint smile. She could not tell what sort of smile it was, and this made her uneasy.
She reminded herself that she’d known nothing about Karim or the world in which he lived, yet she’d soon learned to navigate its treacherous pathways. She’d learned how to amuse and please him. As a result, she’d won his affection and a great fortune in jewels.
This would be easier, she told herself. All she needed to do was find a way into the world to which she properly belonged.
She had come home quietly, Lord Winterton so determined to avert the uproar, which, in the end, could not be averted. They’d kept her hidden in her father’s house for two days, behind closed windows and curtains. She’d felt as though she’d never left the harem.
She stepped through the window and onto the balcony.
The crowd fell silent.
So did her sisters.
Hundreds of faces turned upward. Every pair of eyes focused on her.
She went cold, then hot. She felt dizzy. But it was a wonderful dizziness, the joy of release.
Now at last she stood in the open.
Here I am, she thought. Home at last, at last. Yes, look at me. Look your fill. I’m not invisible anymore.
She felt his big, warm hand clasp hers. The warmth rushed into her heart and made it hurry. She was aware of her pulse jumping against her throat and against her wrist, so close to his. The heat spread into her belly and down, to melt her knees.
I’m going to faint, she thought. But she couldn’t let herself swoon merely because a man had touched her. Not now, at any rate. Not here. She made herself look up at him.
He wore the faintest smile—of mockery or amusement she couldn’t tell. Behind his shuttered eyes she sensed rather than saw a shadow.
She remembered the brief glimpse she’d had, of pain, when she’d mentioned his brother. It had vanished in an instant, but she’d seen it in his first, surprised reaction: the darkness there, bleak and empty and unforgettable.
She gazed longer than she should have into his eyes, those sleepy green eyes that watched her so intently yet shut her out. And at last he let out a short laugh, and raised her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips against her knuckles.
Had they been in the harem, she would have sunk onto the pillows and thrown her head back, inviting him.
But they were not in the harem and he’d declined to make her his wife.
And she was not a man, to let her lust rule her brain.
This man was not a good candidate for a spouse.
There had been a bond between them once. Not a friendship, really. In childhood, the few years between them had been a chasm, as the difference in their genders had been. Still, he’d been fond of her once, she thought, in his own fashion.
But that was before.
Now he was everything every woman could want, and he knew it.
She desired him the way every other woman desired him.
It didn’t really mean anything. It certainly wouldn’t mean anything to him.
Still, at least she felt desire, finally, she told herself. If she could feel it with him, she’d feel it with someone else, someone who wanted her, who’d give his heart to her.
For now, she was grateful to be free. She was grateful to stand on this balcony and look out upon the hundreds of people below.
She squeezed his hand in thanks and let her mouth form a slow, genuine smile, of gratitude and happiness, though she couldn’t help glancing once up at him from under her lashes, to seek his reaction.
She glimpsed the heat flickering in the guarded green gaze.
Ah, he felt it, too: the powerful physical awareness crackling between them.
He released her hand. “We’ve entertained the mob for long enough,” he said. “Go inside.”
She turned away. The crowd began to stir and people were talking again, but more quietly. They’d
become a murmuring sea rather than a roaring one.
“You’ve seen her,” he said, and his deep voice easily carried over the sea. “You shall see her again from time to time. Now go away.”
After a moment, they began to turn away, and by degrees they drifted out of the square.
Three
Marchmont had done nothing more than brush his lips over her knuckles.
It was more than enough.
He’d caught the scent of her skin and felt its softness, and the sensations lingered long after he let go and turned away.
Perhaps, after all, he should have said yes. Visions of Zoe dancing in veils swarmed into his brain again.
He pushed them away. He was not about to disrupt his life to marry a complete stranger, even for Lexham’s sake.
He turned his attention to the square. It was emptying, as he’d known it would. The mob’s excitement abated once they saw that the Harem Girl looked like any other attractive English lady. This was only the first and easiest part of the task he’d undertaken.
Part Two was the newspapers. Unlike the mob, they wouldn’t let go of a sensational story so easily. The stragglers in the square were mainly newspaper men. They wanted a story, and they’d make one up if necessary.
He reentered the library, where Zoe waited, her blue eyes brimming with an admiration and gratitude that even he, who couldn’t be bothered to read expressions, could comprehend. He didn’t know whether or not he believed what he saw in her face. A dozen years ago, he would have known what to believe. But a dozen years ago, Zoe would never have worn such a melting expression.
This wasn’t the Zoe he’d known all those years ago, he reminded himself. In any event, he didn’t need to know what was in her heart, any more than she needed to know what was in his. He’d promised to bring her into fashion, and that was all he needed to do.
He turned his attention elsewhere.
Her sisters hovered in the doorway, one black figure standing at each side of the frame and two with enormous bellies pacing in the corridor beyond.
