Page 78 of The Beautiful Pretender

“Greed and lust for power will make a man do almost anything.”

They sat in silence as he took in this new information. He was sick at the thought of someone deliberately murdering his brother, his brother’s lover, and their unborn child. Henrich never had a chance to fight back—or repent of his sins.

Avelina broke the silence. “I don’t want him to kill you.”

“Thank you for that.” He was very aware of her shoulder pressed against his. He should have sat on the other side.

The guard in the next room made enough noise to cover the sound of their voices as he continued shuffling papers and banging around.

“My lord?”

“Yes?”

“Your people need you. I want you to escape and go to Jorgen and Odette’s manor house.”

Because of her, he had been humiliated in front of powerful people, some of whom were plotting against him and one who murdered his brother and unborn child. Why did she have to sound so good and kind and sweet?

“I have a question to ask you.” If he were wise, he would not ask. But if Geitbart was going to kill him, it wouldn’t matter anyway. “In the two weeks when I thought you were Lady Dorothea, when you always tried to turn the conversation to Lady Magdalen,I thought it was because you were timid. But it was not. Why were you so afraid to talk to me?”

“Iwasafraid. I . . . I wanted you to admire Lady Magdalen, not me.”

“Ah.” He should dwell on that. She did not want him to love her, did not feel anything for him.

“I enjoyed talking to you,” she whispered softly. “I wanted to talk to you. But I was afraid if I drew your attention to me, you might . . . that is . . . I knew I could not marry you.”

Could he hear regret in her voice? No, he didn’t want to hear that, did not want to believe the best about her or to think about her pain.

“I would be punished if you chose me,” she went on, “and so would my family.”

For whom she had asked for a goose and a side of pork every month. How considerate and compassionate she was . . . and poor.

“Of course. I understand.” He tried to sound dispassionate and unconcerned.

There was a long pause. Then she said, “I admired you. Very much. So I tried not to talk to you or look at you. I was afraid you would see how much I admired you.”

Her words buoyed him—and twisted the knife in his heart at the same time.

As his eyes had grown accustomed to the low light, he could see her hands were limp in her lap, her head slightly bowed.

“You could have trusted me with the truth about who you were and what Lord Plimmwald had made you do.”

“I know that now. But I could not have known that I could trust you not to be angry and tell Lord Plimmwald. I never wanted to hurt you. But you should not have been so angry withme, and you should not treat your servants the way you do. You yell at them, even when they have not done anything wrong. They may be your servants, but you can at least treat them with respect.”

For a moment he was speechless. “Did you just rebuke me for not being respectful enough to my servants?”

“Yes, I did. And for being angry with me even after you knew I did not mean to hurt you and never wanted to deceive you.” Her voice had lost some of its forceful tartness. Still, she sounded like her old self, when she had boldly proclaimed her opinions about love and marriage and duty and everything else he’d asked her about.

“Perhaps you are right. I should not have sent you to the servants’ quarters in anger, with an injured ankle. I regret it.”

She was very still, and he imagined his answer had shocked her into silence.

The outline of her shoulders in the dark room showed how small and frail she was. He imagined his arm embracing her, pulling her back against his chest, her head resting against him, her temple against his cheek. How good it would feel to turn her face toward him and kiss her.

A sharp ache stabbed his chest. He must not think such things. She was a servant and he was a margrave.

He could neither love her nor marry her. Besides, she was impertinent and opinionated, two of the very worst traits a woman could have. So why could he not stop thinking that she was the only woman he would ever want?

Avelina was getting cold sitting in the unheated room. The only part of her that was warm was her arm and shoulder, pressed againstLord Thornbeck. If only she was Lady Dorothea. She would shamelessly tell him she was cold, ask for his embrace, and rest her head against his chest.