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“That’s not it, Sebastian. I cannot do this. I cannot be this kind of person.”

He opened his mouth, but she forestalled him.

“Last summer, at Lady Troubridge’s house party, you walked into my bedchamber as if I were a courtesan, available for all callers.” She didn’t say it with anger, simply as a fact. “You came because I acted like a whore.”

“No!”

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But she stopped him again. “Like a whore,” she repeated calmly. “Falling into your arms in the drawing room. It’s no wonder that you thought to enter my bedchamber without warning and that you expected I would greet you with open arms. I made myself into a convenient woman.” Wonder of wonders, she wasn’t even crying. Her pain was too deep for tears.

“Please leave, Sebastian. Go back to Italy. I bewhored myself for you twice now; please don’t make me do it again.”

“Don’t ever say that about yourself,” he said. His eyes had the fierce rage of an eagle.

“I only say the truth,” she said. “That will be the world’s assessment if they find out what truly happened between us. Your presence here, on my estate, threatens to make that truth known to all. And that name—whore—will ruin this child’s future.”

His eyes were blue-black, burning into hers, but she could see that he was listening to her.

“When Miles and I agree to reconcile, that was the one thing he asked. He said that we had to live together, and we had to be discreet. Because it was important for the child’s sake. I keep dreaming that he’s there and that he’s asking me—begging me, really—to be a good mother.”

She looked down at Sebastian, kneeling by her side. Miles wasn’t the only one in her heart.

“Do it for Miles, if not for me,” Esme said, and there was a catch in her voice. “You owe his child that much.”

He put his head down on her arm, the first time that Esme had ever seen him show despair.

She put her hand on his head, and a gold tendril curled around her finger as if to keep her there. She walked out the door without looking back.

< 38 =

Food Fights Are Not Limited to the Young

The snowstorm lasted three days. Anabel’s stomach rejected several meals. Josie had a tantrum in which she began a fierce and familiar refrain—“I’m a poor, motherless child”—

but then broke off because she realized that Henrietta was telling Anabel a story and she might miss it. It was her favorite tale, about the angry little lampshade who traveled all the way to Paris. Henrietta pretended not to notice what almost happened, and simply welcomed Josie on her lap. In fact, Josie was almost startlingly good. The low point was when she threw a spoonful of mashed potatoes at her sister, but then she wasn’t the only one playing with her food during the three days they spent in the Bear and Owl. For example, the second evening, Henrietta and Darby ate supper in their private chamber. Without a moment’s warning, he coolly tipped a spoon of trifle down the low neck of her gown.

Henrietta just sat for a moment, mouth open, staring at him while the icy trifle slithered between her breasts and caught on the top of her corset.

He got up just as elegant and sophisticated as he always Fool for Love

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was. “Have you suffered an accident, my dear? Here, do let me help.” And he started nimbly undoing the fastenings to her gown while she wondered whether she had misunderstood. Perhaps the trifle flew out of his spoon—but no. It wasn’t until he had her standing and was briskly unlacing her corset that she caught a good glimpse of his face. His silky brown gold hair was falling out of its tie at his neck. He was wicked—wicked! His hands teased as they untied, tracing the sticky chill of the trifle.

“What a pity,” he said, “I believe you’ll have to travel without your corset.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I have others, sir.”

“But this monstrosity”—he held it up in the air—“is what has been making you resemble a marionette, and has been making your gowns hang on you as if these luscious pieces of you didn’t exist.” His fingers left trails of fire across her breasts.

“You cannot make me into a person like yourself,” she said.

“What sort of person?” he asked silkily.

“Elegant,” Henrietta said bluntly. “Dresses will never look their best on me. I limp and I am short besides.”