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Seven
Honoria could not breathe. She felt as though the air had been squeezed out of her lungs, when in fact, the marquis held her very lightly. She could have moved out of his embrace easily. She should have moved out of his embrace when he refused to release her.
But she did not.
It was not because she liked the man.
He was arrogant and vain.
It was not because she admired his manners.
He’d cuffed her to a bedpost!
And it was most certainly not because she admired him or his cause.
Of course, she wanted the little prince and princess freed from the Temple, but his means did not justify the ends.
And still she did not move away, even when they’d stood with their bodies touching for several long moments. Even when he lifted a hand and swept his knuckles across her cheek. His touch was achingly tender, so tender she wanted to lean into it. No one had ever touched her so tenderly before.
His hand rested in her hair, twirling one lock of it around his finger. “I do not exaggerate when I say you are the most exquisite woman I have ever met.”
All of the warmth in Honoria seeped out through her toes. “You mean my beauty.”
“It is incomparable.” He bent, and she could only assume he meant to kiss her. Instead she brought her hands up and shoved hard against his chest. He took two steps back before regaining his balance, but it was enough to separate her from him and break the last vestiges of the spell he’d cast over her.
“Did I say something wrong?” he asked with a mocking smile. The man seemed completely unaffected by their closeness a moment ago or her abrupt rejection.
“Thank you for your assistance.” She held up the chain. “Do not touch me again.”
He made a sweeping bow, more suited for a royal court than the benefit of a commoner like herself. It was clear he did not intend to take her back to the safe house, and even if she were to persuade him tonight, it was too late and too dangerous to attempt such a journey. She would be forced to sleep here. Perhaps that was why he had not argued about freeing her.
He had moved to the nightstand and held out one of the glasses of wine. “If I give this to you, will you throw it at me later? I don’t have an unlimited supply of wineglasses, and I do so detest drinking from the bottle.”
She refrained from rolling her eyes, barely. “I will not throw it.”
He handed her the bottle and as he neared she realized his hair and the collar and shoulders of his shirt were wet. “Is it raining?”
“No.” He followed her gaze to his wet linen. “I washed before I came back in. I suppose I should change before I catch my death of cold. You did say you could light a fire in the brazier?”
“Easily.”
While he went to the wardrobe, presumably to change his clothing, she tended the brazier. In a few minutes she had a low fire crackling. She’d built it higher than she might have, but the rooms were cold from disuse and she wanted the heat. She warmed her hands, giving the marquis time to dress.
“I shall have to ask you to show me how to do that sometime,” he said from behind her. “I find I am ill equipped for this new regime.”
She turned, some biting quip on her lips, but it died the moment she saw him.
He had changed clothing, donning breeches—or culottes, as the French called them—and these fit him like a second skin. He’d also pulled a dark coat and a stark white shirt from his wardrobe, but he had not yet dressed in them. In the glow of the fire, she could clearly see the wide expanse of his chest and his hard, flat stomach. She had seen men dressed in less, but never had such a sight left her breathless.
Why had she made the fire so hot?
He caught her gaze on him and dropped the linen shirt over his head. “Prison was not kind to me, I’m afraid.” For a moment she did not understand, and when she did, she furrowed her brow. Did he think his body had displeased her? She quickly banished the idea of telling him otherwise. She should not have been looking at any rate.
“Not enough food, not enough rest.” He fastened the buttons at his throat. “One could always tell who had been in the prison the longest because he or she was the thinnest. Even my money could not buy me better food.” He spoke of starvation as he did everything else. His tone was that of a man suffering acute ennui. As though prison was nothing more than merely tedious and the lack of food or basic hygiene, the threat of death hanging over one’s head, and the lice and other vermin were little more than a tiresome nuisance.
