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“I could kill the man who did this to you.” His gaze was dark and intense, and she felt unexpectedly self-conscious.
She shifted back, moving just out of his reach. She felt more comfortable thinking of him as the man who had abandoned her, not the man who wanted to protect her. “You seem to want to travel to Calais. You don’t need my blessing, but I’ll give it if it makes you feel better.” Now there was emotional as well as physical space between them.
“It won’t make me feel better.” He moved closer to her again, his eyes dark and intent on her face. “I might as well admit it. Nothing seems to work.”
“What do you mean?” Why had she asked? She did not want to know. She wanted that space between them again. She needed distance from the heat in his eyes.
“I mean, I can’t seem to let you go.” His voice was low and husky, tinged with ruefulness and desire.
Angelette closed her eyes, trying not to allow the tingling his words had caused to overwhelm her. She felt her face heat and floundered for a response. “While I appreciate the sentiment, Lord Daventry,”—she tried to make her tone light and flippant—“this isn’t the best time to court me.”
“I don’t have any intention of courting you, Comtesse.”
She swallowed. Her throat dry. “Then whatdoyou intend?”
He looked away and she realized after a long moment that he didn’t mean to answer. Why that should make her shiver with anticipation, she couldn’t say.
“Assuming we can enter the city tomorrow, what’s your plan?”
“I believe my friends the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Merville are at home. They live on the Rue Saint-Honoré.”
“And if they are not in the city?”
She bit her lip, and he raked a hand through his hair. “I was afraid of that. Did your husband have a house in Paris?”
“Yes, but I do not think it habitable. When he died his brother began renovations. With all of the unrest, they might not have progressed very far.”
“It’s still a possibility if we are desperate.” He glanced at her. “Unless...”
She lifted her brows.
“Will it upset you to go there?”
“Why?” Then she understood. “Because of Georges? No. Most of my memories of him are at Avignon, but even those have begun to fade.”
“How did he die? If I may ask?”
“A fever.” She looked away. “It seemed such a small thing. He was well one day and at death’s door the next. He was dead within three days.”
She felt his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“As am I.” And she truly was. For a long time she’d been angry at Georges, angry that he’d leave her alone, leave her a widow at such a young age. He had promised to grow old with her. But she felt little trace of that anger now, just a sadness at what might have been. She had mourned him, and while in those first weeks she might have felt life would never go on, now she saw that it did. Now she had a reason to go on.
Perhaps Georges was part of the reason she had so detested Daventry at first. Daventry had reminded her she was still a woman. She’d noticed him, been attracted to him, felt her body come alive again. Daventry was more confirmation that Georges was truly gone and she was still here. Still alive. And she had her whole life ahead of her.
“We’d better find somewhere else to hide. I passed a farmhouse a mile or so ago.”
“I’m not certain they’d welcome me or any noble.”
He gave her a long look. “I wasn’t planning on knocking on the door, Comtesse. We can rest in the stable until sunrise.”
“The stable?” She wrinkled her nose.
“The option for Calais and then London is still open.”
She sighed. “A stable is fine.”
***
