Page 67 of The Redemption of the Shrew

“I’m too tired to think clearly just now.” She unclasped her diamond necklace and tossed it on the dressing table.

Elspeth peered at her. “What’s wrong, Miss Glow? You’re more than just tired.”

“I caused a scene at the ball,” Gloriana said. “It was dreadful.”

“Lost your temper, did you? With your Philippe, I suppose.”

“No, I did not lose my temper. I knew precisely what I was doing and why.” She shuddered. “Very well, maybe I did lose my temper a little, but I couldn’t think of any other way to handle the situation . . .” She sat at the dressing table, and while Elspeth brushed out her hair, she explained what had happened at the ball. “I was only trying to help Lady Marianne, and I could see no other way but to distract Lord Hythwick with a touch of woman’s wiles.”

“Tsk.” Elspeth tugged gently on a tangle. “That was foolish.”

“Yes, it was stupid and dangerous,” Gloriana admitted. “People now are whispering that I will become Lord Hythwick’s mistress, and I’m afraid he thinks so too. He frightens me, but I can’t crawl back to my brother’s estate to avoid both him and the gossips. That would be so craven of me.” She slumped in the chair. “I do believe this was the worst evening of my entire life.”

“Sit up, miss. I’m almost done with your hair.” Elspeth eyed her in the mirror. “Worse than when you paraded naked for your Philippe at the lake?”

Irritated, Gloriana hunched a shoulder. “Very well, the second worst. Then, I believed he loved me, so I was utterly shattered. Now I know he doesn’t, so it hardly matters what he thinks. Let’s not discuss it anymore, Elspeth. I’m exhausted. All I want to do is sleep and sleep.”

The maid helped her into her nightdress and tucked her up in bed. She drew the curtains around the bed, blew out the candle, and closed the door softly as she left.

~ ~ ~

From his hiding place behind the window curtain of Gloriana’s bedchamber, Philippe pondered what he’d heard. She’d loved him? He had thought so at the time, but when she’d tried to force him into marriage, he’d concluded otherwise.

Maybe he’d misunderstood her—both at the lake and afterwards.

How could he help but do so? She’d tried to lure him into marriage, and later, she had behaved in a manner calculated to prove that she was a hypocrite, through and through. Had she done so as a response to his behavior?

Again—maybe.

Fine, but if she loved him still, her way of showing it left much to be desired. She was so volatile, so easily enraged, that they couldn’t have a rational conversation. She’d flung one of her old, familiar insults at him this evening. How was he supposed to know when she meant what she said and when she didn’t?

He didn’t trust her. He couldn’t.

He also adored her. He always had, and he always would. Her passionate nature had ensnared him right from the start, and even though she had turned it against him for years, he couldn’t resist. He was a fool.

Maybe Sophie was right. Maybe he owed Gloriana an explanation of his flight so many years ago. What harm could it do except to his pride? Perhaps if he got it over with, he could forget the past, forget Gloriana, and be on his way.

Or perhaps not—but he had to do it regardless.

He was about to come out from behind the curtain when she began to weep—softly at first, then great, racking sobs of misery that twisted and tore at his heart.

He tried to steel himself against her. Anyone, trustworthy or not, might give in to exhaustion and despair.

But what if she, when not in the grasp of hurt or anger, was as trustworthy as he? What if she too suffered from a bruised and battered heart?

He stood silently, longing to take her into his arms, to hold and comfort her—but she would see his presence as an intolerable intrusion, and she would be right.

What if she was crying her heart out . . . over him?

He clenched his fists, closed his eyes, and waited, agonized, as the sobs gradually subsided. At last she blew her nose and hiccupped a few times. Soft footsteps and the trickle of water told him she was bathing her face. “Well,” she said, “so much for that.” The ropes creaked as she climbed back into bed. After a minute, she began to murmur softly, and he realized that she was praying—in Latin, so doubtless it was a passage from the Book of Hours. How strange that he, who had more or less dispensed with religion, had fallen in love with such a devout woman—and found himself greatly moved.

She finished her prayer and all was silent. Still he waited, until her even breathing told him she slept. He let himself out the window and walked away into the cold, drizzly night. What the devil was he to do now?

Chapter 14

Sophie’s lover walked his fingers up her naked torso and down again, hovering over and tickling her nether curls.

She shivered under his touch. Passion was what had made life tolerable with both Jean-Esprit and Yves—and what had made it unbearable in the end. It would be different with Eric. His confidence in the bedchamber ensured that. But she could not marry him. She had to let him go.