Page 8 of The Redemption of the Shrew

“That’s not necessary,” Gloriana began, but the fury on Philippe’s face struck her dumb.

Elspeth let go of her and curtsied. “Yes, sir, but I can’t leave Miss Gloriana at such a moment.”

“Miss Warren is perfectly safe with me,” Philippe said.

“Truly, I’m fine,” Gloriana said, surprised her voice didn’t shake. Inside, she was a quivering mess. “Do as he says, Elspeth, and ask the earl’s valet to mop him up and send him on his way.”

Elspeth curtsied again and left. Embarrassment and gratitude warred for predominance within Gloriana. She would never have believed smooth, cultured Philippe capable of such violence. Such rage.

Perhaps her plan hadn’t been so foolish after all. Perhaps . . . perhaps he still loved her. At that heady thought, she raised her eyes. “Thank you, Philippe.” She hadn’t addressed him by his Christian name in years. “I was taken by surprise.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he said sarcastically. “Thought you could compromise yourself with that rat, eh?”

“What? No, I was merely about to show him—”

“A taste of the delights he might anticipate after the wedding?”

What? “The Book of Hours,” she retorted, indicating it on her bedside table with a sweep of the hand. “He asked to see it. How was I to know he would force his way in and attack me?”

A flicker of doubt appeared in Philippe’s eyes. He strode over to the table, picked up the book, and leafed through it, taking his time. Transfixed with anguished love, she watched him, wishing, wishing . . .

“A truly extraordinary book,” he said at last, and finally turned to her, his eyes cold. “If you’re telling me the truth—which I take leave to doubt—you should have known better than to return to this house without male escort. You should have known better than to let Hythwick near your bedchamber. Did you never notice the heat in his eyes when he gazed at you?”

She felt her cheeks heat with shame, of all stupid emotions. So unfair, because it wasn’t her fault Hythwick was a lecher. She had flirted with many men, hoping to make Philippe jealous, but not with Hythwick. She had never, ever led him on in any way. She hadn’t even invited him to Garrison House, not truly. He’d invited himself—in public, at a ball—so she’d had no choice but to agree to it.

Miserably, she remembered a day when Philippe’s eyes had shone with desire. No longer. So much for her foolish hope that he still cared. All his gaze revealed now was disgust.

“Once, long ago, I thought I loved you, Gloriana, but you have proven yourself the embodiment of everything I despise—intolerance, bigotry, and every kind of folly.”

Ah, he didn’t know her at all—and yet she deserved every word of what he said. She’d put on an act for years, pretending to be someone she wasn’t, publicly and vehemently denouncing his principles—the principles she believed in too—to get back at him. To show him . . . what?

She had indeed proven herself a fool—just not the sort he believed her to be.

She realized he was still holding the book, so she took it back. She almost grabbed it, but it was old and precious, so she forced her hands to gentleness.

And her voice to scorn. “You never loved me. And I never loved you, either.”

Revulsion washed over her, this time at herself. So much for her sacred vow! Blindly, tears in her eyes, she stumbled past Hythwick to the bookshelf and hid the beautiful book behind a row of novels. She wouldn’t read it anymore. The very thought of it reproached her. She dashed the tears from her eyes, took a deep breath, and turned.

On the floor between them, the Earl of Hythwick had rolled onto his side, facing her. His half-closed eyes gleamed with rage. She glared right back. That was easy to do. Whereas meeting Philippe’s cold gaze? Unbearable.

The earl’s valet bustled in, and she raised her eyes, mistress of herself once more. “Kindly prepare your master for immediate departure,” she ordered in her most imperious voice. “I shall send to the stables to have his coach brought round.”

“Very good, miss.” The valet helped Hythwick to his feet and guided him from the room, more blood dripping onto the carpet. Philippe followed as far as the doorway, where he remained, leaning against the jamb.

“You may leave as well,” she snapped.

“Non.” He folded his arms, a stubborn jut to his chin. “Not until your brother arrives.”

“I’m no longer in danger,” she said. “I don’t need you here.”

He didn’t move.

“Damn you,” she said. “I don’t want you here.”

“Quel dommage.” What a pity. She was used to his sarcasm, the weapon he’d used for years to counter her verbal attacks, but it stung all the same. A lock of dark hair fell over his brow. His eyes were hard, indifferent, and utterly determined.

She considered trying to shut the door in his face but decided against it. As usual, she wouldn’t win. “I hope I never see you again.”