He gestured for her to take a seat in a plushly upholstered claw-foot armchair beside an equally imposing dressing table.
She folded her arms instead.
“Listen,” he began, and then said nothing else. His eyes raked her in obvious hunger, and he visibly forced his hands behind his back as though to prevent himself from reaching for her.
She did her best to glower menacingly at him, the way he always did to others.
He winced and rubbed his face.
“What is the matter?” she burst out. “Listen to what? Are musicians supposed to burst in and surprise us with song?”
“No, I...” He started to step forward, then thought better of it. “Unity, I know you’re not a courtesan. You’ve never traded yourself for coin.”
She blinked. “That’smy crime?”
“It’s not a crime. I—”
“Wait.” She narrowed her eyes. “How would you know what I choose to do with my body?”
He made a pained expression. “I had you investigated.”
“Youwhat?To know I’ve ‘never’ prostituted myself means you pried into years of my private life, digging for secrets that have nothing to do with you.”
“I realize it may sound upsetting—”
“Doyou?” She could not believe his arrogance and entitlement. “Would it have been acceptable for me to have done the same to you?”
“You don’t have to investigate me,” he said dryly. “My name is everywhere, whether I like it or not. Debrett’s, transcriptions of parliamentary debates, every other scandal sheet...”
“So, because parts ofyourlife are public,Idon’t deserve privacy?”
He met her gaze. “I have never misrepresented who and what I am.”
“Nor would you have allowed me a moment of your time if I hadn’t,” she snapped.
“How do you know?” he asked archly. “Did you conduct unauthorized research into what sort of person I might be?”
Unity glared at him.
Oh, very well. She had conducted light “research,” insofar as begging gossip from actresses could be counted as a private investigation. She had not knocked on his door unaware of what sort of man he was. And Julian was right—he had made no attempt to hide his true self.
“Why does my history matter?” she asked. “This is a masquerade. We’re all in costume as someone else. The whole idea is to remain anonymous, without revealing our true identities.”
“Iwantto be with the real you,” he replied. “That’s why it matters. I can only imagine what you think of me, but I am not a debaucher of virgins. As soon as I realized you were actually an innocent—”
She burst out laughing. “How can you be friends with thousands of people and still not know anything about women? Do you honestly believe the only flavors we come in are ‘whore’ and ‘virgin’?”
“I...” He stared at her in consternation. “Until a young lady is wed, she is typically expected...”
“It wasn’t much of an investigation if it didn’t turn up the tiny detail that I am not an aristocratic young lady with pretensions to the beau monde,” she said dryly. “Your rules are as may be, but you cannot believe the rest of the world abides by them.”
He frowned. “You’re... not...”
“No, not for a long time. And not sorry about it, either. If you are now bothered by the idea that I am not as ‘chaste’ as you imagined, may I remind you that none of your many invited guests flood your ballroom on Saturday nights with any expectation of propriety?”
He looked at her in silence.
“They steal away in pairs or more, out to hidden enclaves in the garden, or up the stairs to the private play chambers. With each other, or, often enough, with you. It would be the height of hypocrisy to have a special rulebook that applies only to me. But if the truth has caused you to dislike me—”
