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There was a silence.
She glanced up and found his green gaze on hers, deep and dark as forests and full of dangerous wild things. She couldn’t look away.
There was a kind of humming in the air around them, and the prickling heat that had swept over her skin was spreading out. Warming her entire body. Making her feel restless and hot and hungry. But not for food.
‘Thank you,’ the duke said gravely.
He was not triumphant or smug, nor even showing that lazy amusement she’d come to associate with him. It was as if her name had been an important gift and he was receiving it with all the solemnity that entailed.
‘Pleased to met you, Leonie.’
Just for a moment she thought he might reach out and take her hand, shake it. And, strangely, she almost wanted him to, so she could feel his fingers on her skin again. How odd to want to touch someone after so long actively avoiding it.
But he didn’t take her hand. Instead he gestured to the food.
‘Eat.’ His mouth curled. ‘Not that I was going to stop you from eating.’
Leonie decided not to say anything to that. She was too hungry anyway.
Not wanting to draw his attention, she didn’t load her plate with too much food and she tried to eat slowly. It was all unbelievably delicious, but she wanted to pace herself. It had been a while since she’d eaten rich food and she didn’t want to make herself sick. But it tasted so good—especially the fresh vegetables.
The duke poured her a glass of wine and she had a sip—and her toes just about curled in the plain black leather shoes she’d been given. Everything tasted amazing. She wanted to eat and drink all of it.
He didn’t eat—merely sat there toying with a glass of wine in a leisurely fashion and studying her. It was disconcerting.
‘You’re not hungry?’ she asked, feeling self-conscious.
Had she been gorging herself? She didn’t want to give away how starving she was, wary of him asking more questions that she wasn’t prepared to answer.
What does it matter if he knows you’re homeless?
Perhaps it didn’t matter. Perhaps it was only instinct that prevented her from revealing more, the long years of being wary and mistrustful settling into a reflex she couldn’t ignore. Then again, there were reasons for her mistrust and wariness. She’d seen many young women in the same situation as herself fall victim to unscrupulous men because they’d trusted the wrong person, revealed the wrong thing.
Easier to keep to oneself, not let anyone close and stay alive.
It was a habit her wary, bitter mother had instilled in her long before she was on the streets anyway, and she’d seen no reason to change it.
Then again, although trusting this particular man might be a bridge too far, it was clear he wasn’t here to hurt her. He’d had ample opportunity to do so and hadn’t, so either he was saving it for a specific time or he wasn’t going to do anything to her at all.
Maybe she could relax a little. Perhaps part of her reluctance to tell him anything had more to do with what he’d think of her, a dirty Parisian street kid, than whether he’d harm her. Not that she cared what he thought of her. At all.
‘No, not hungry right now.’ He leaned back in his chair, his wine glass held between long fingers. ‘Did Camille not feed you enough?’
Despite all her justifications, she could feel her cheeks get hot. When she’d been turned out of the dilapidated apartment she’d shared with her mother, after her mother hadn’t ever returned home, she’d had to fend for herself. And that hadn’t allowed for such luxuries as pride. So why she was blushing now because he’d spotted her hunger, she had no idea.
‘Just hungry today,’ she muttered, not willing to give him anything else just yet. Mainly because she’d been doing nothing but resist for so long she couldn’t remember how to surrender.
‘I think not.’ His tone was casual. ‘I think you’re starving.’
She tensed. Had the way she’d been eating given her away? ‘I’m not—’
‘Your cheeks are hollow and you’re far too thin.’ His gaze was very sharp, though his posture was relaxed. ‘You’re homeless, aren’t you?’
Did you really think you could keep it from him?
Damn. Why did he have to be so observant? Why couldn’t be like all the other rich people in the world who never saw the people living on the streets? Who were blind to them? Why couldn’t he have simply called the police when he’d grabbed her the night before and got her carted away to the cells?
Why do you even care?
