Page 36 of The Redemption of the Shrew

“That’s not the impression you gave earlier.”

“I was angry. I treated you harshly.”

She huffed. “And you’re not angry now?”

“I am fatigued, Gloriana. Weary to the bottom of my heart.”

She was weary, too.

“Come, let us cry truce. It is not far to your house.” He offered her his arm.

She hesitated, but took it. It seemed childish not to, and she wasn’t in danger of longing for his love after what he had almost called her tonight. Was that what he thought of her—that she was nothing but a wanton who would use her charms to lure any man?

Had he completely forgotten the vows of love they had shared so long ago?

Or did he not believe she’d meant them?

He had made it entirely clear that he hadn’t meant them, so what right had he to insult her?

“You kept the Book of Hours by your bedside,” he said after a while, and when she bristled and drew away, he put up a hand. “No, no, I meant no offense.” He tucked her hand in his arm again.

She complied stiffly, trying to keep her anger fierce and alive to combat the simple pleasure of his touch.

“I wondered why you seem so eager, even desperate, to retrieve the book immediately, since sometimes these matters take time. Perhaps it is because the book is valuable, or because it belongs to your brother. Or perhaps, given your talent in drawing and watercolors, it’s because you love the so beautiful illuminations. But neither of these explains why you kept it by your bedside for use at the time of day when one contemplates a little and says one’s prayers.”

Flabbergasted, she said nothing. He’d been thinking about her. How was she supposed to combat that?

“I am . . . curious to learn about the religious Gloriana,” he said. “The one who mentions the proper uses of such a book.”

Even worse. Why must he ask about something so close to her heart?

“There is nothing to learn,” she said. “It is true that I liked to look at the illuminations, but also to read about the saints and to repeat the prayers aloud. Sometimes . . .” She hesitated. She never spoke about this. It was too private, but suddenly she needed him to know that she wasn’t a wanton woman, but an honorable one. “Sometimes I just hold it in my hands and draw comfort and—and strength from it.”

Except that she’d been drawing strength in order to pretend to be someone she wasn’t. How foolish and useless and utterly wrong.

“A much better use than locking it away,” he said. “I am sorry.”

“I used to take it everywhere with me when I traveled.”

“But not when you left Lancashire last summer? Is that why you didn’t discover the loss at once?”

She sighed. “Yes, I decided not to bring it then. I felt . . .” Unworthy, but she’d had enough of confessing. Why had she thought explaining about the book would make him think better of her? She was too tired to think clearly. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Perhaps not, but I am willing to try.”

Why? She wanted to ask, but she wasn’t willing to risk any more of his disdain. And yet, he’d been thinking about her. She glanced up at him in the dim light of a streetlamp. “You are a Catholic, are you not?”

He seemed to ponder her question. “By birth, yes.”

“You are not a religious man?”

“Not in a traditional manner. If you had witnessed the corruption of the Church, the burden placed upon the people . . .”

“I remember seeing a French engraving,” she said, “of a noble and a bishop both riding upon the back of a peasant.”

“Exactly so, but the behavior of religious leaders does not negate religion itself. It merely obliges one to find one’s own way.”

The chilly night wind picked up, and they hurried along the last few streets to her house. What a strange conversation to have with Philippe de Bellechasse.