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“Romulus, my boy,” Charlotte’s melodious voice echoed on the nearly empty drawing room. “Keep Lady Winchester company, will you? While I bid good night to my other guests.” Fan in hand, she followed the last of the people leaving.
“I am leaving too, my lady.” The older woman pretended not to listen it as she closed the door behind her.
Black suit, black waistcoat, black cravat and, surprisingly enough, white shirt, his tall, broad frame took all her view. Or her eager gaze took all of him, she could not tell. What she did understand was that air became scarce and inappropriate thoughts made their best to muddle her defenceless mind.
“My lady.” Deep tones, he bowed to her after he positioned himself by the hearth. The fire played with his sleek hair to the sides of his square jaw.
“Your Grace.” She curtsied automatically when she became able to unglue her coveting stare from him.
A couple of footmen still collected the remnants of the soiree and the clinking of glasses filled the awkward silence.
“I should be calling for my carriage.” Eyes on the door to her right as a life saver, she hoped her knees supported her until she sat in her vehicle. Gyrating, she sought her escape.
“You once asked me why my regiment thought me dead.” His low tones stopped her in her tracks.
She turned to him so abruptly, her purple skirts flew around her legs. “And you demonstrated unbending resistance to answer.”
The footmen deserted the room.
That lopsided smile flirted with his sensuous mouth. “Let us just say that I was too… distracted to formulate a coherent answer.”
Intense vermillion tinted her cheeks at the memory of exactly how she asked it. They had been in the dungeon and she had been trying to extract answers, very intently, she should admit.
“And now?” Impossible not to fidget with her fan, as she forced herself to be unruffled.
“I am still too distracted.” His nearly green irises dead focused on her. “By your beauty and brightness, I mean.” Locking his hands behind him, he displayed his broad chest. Which she remembered so vividly, despite the layers of fabric he hid it under at that moment. “I can manage, though.” He complemented.
Her instincts clawed at her, clamouring she run to him, from him. With him! Anything but keep this motionless, waiting.
“You learned my mother died in France, during the Revolution.”
Nodding, she clasped her hands together. “Your aunt mentioned it.”
“In reality, she was murdered.” A shadow of sorrow passed over his rugged features.
“Goodness Gracious!” The only thing she found to exclaim.
“For more than ten years, my father tried to track the assassin and discovered he had been one of her suitors.”
Her overwhelming astonishment spoke for her.
“She did not accept his suit, preferring my father. The murderer did not take it well. When he met her in Paris, he took advantage of the riots to kill her.”
“And he was not brought to justice?” Her pleated brows and hands to her chest expressed sympathy for him.
“No.” He paced the carpet. “The police counted her death among so many others that occurred in those days.”
“Did your father not succeed in taking him to trial?”
Head shaking, he raked his hair. “The man disappeared.” He stanched a couple of feet in front of her and she had to lift her head to meet his eyes. “During the war, I came to know he fought as one of the officers.”
“You went after him.” Oh, dear.
“Precisely.” Even shuttered, his expression spoke of vehement single-mindedness.
“Did you.. did you-“ Unable to complete the question, she waited.
“No, I did not kill him.” His stance flew away in his memories. “I came to know he died in battle before I could find him.”
