Page 34 of A Secret Correspondence
“Do you need candles?”
He smiled down at her. “No, but I would like to speak with you.”
She was momentarily lost for words but quickly found them again. “That would be acceptable.” She glanced behind him, but none of his friends appeared to be with him. “Have you come to town alone?”
“I did.” He drew his hands behind his back and held his wrists loosely. It was a kindness, sending the message that he would not put her in a position to accept—or reject—his arm. “I had hoped to speak with you, actually.”
“Oh?”
“Lady Faversham has given me express permission to invite you to her ball this evening.”
Marguerite tripped over her feet, but Armand was quick to put out his arms and stabilize her. When he was satisfied that she would not fall, he released her, and she continued across the street until she stood in the shade of the chandler’s shop.
“I understand this is a surprise, but I am not here long, and I would like to see you again.” He cleared his throat. “I have inquired and was informed that your husband no longer lives. I am not being too forward, I hope?”
She shook her head. It was common knowledge that she was a widow.
Armand’s shoulders fell slightly in relief.
“I am still a modiste, sir. It has been some years since I have been in France, so I am uncertain if things are different there. But here, it is not done.”
“So I have been told.” His smile appeared rakish, as though this handsome man knew he was breaking convention and did not care. His eyes narrowed slightly, raking over her face. “Have we met before?”
“I do not know.” She lifted her shoulders as though it mattered little, but inside, her heart raced. While she did not believe Armand to be the one to have left her the notes, his arrival was timed in such a way that she could not discount him entirely.
In fact, despite how dearly she did not wish to attend any ball, she should not refuse the opportunity to speak with him more. If hewasthe person trying to torment her with aged ribbon and the smell of her mother’s perfume, perhaps an evening together would push him to reveal himself. He was gifting her an opportunity, and she would be foolish to turn it down.
Besides, she already had a ballgown ready and sitting in the window of her shop in just her size.
“Have you truly verified that Lady Faversham approves of my attending her ball?” Marguerite glanced down at the end of the street and noticed the Rose carriage had stopped in front of the blacksmith shop.
Armand tilted his head to the side. “Madame, you think so little of me? Of course I did. She was easily persuaded when I told her of our shared home. I am only to remain in Harewood for a sennight more. This opportunity is too great to pass up.”
“That is very kind of her.” Marguerite drew in a breath. “I will accept. Thank you.”
He smiled broadly, taking her hand. “The honor is mine. I look forward to dancing. You will save me the waltz, will you not?”
Her entire body revolted, shouting at her to refuse him, but she could not. “I do not know that dance, so I am afraid I will be forced to sit out for that set, regardless of who asks me.”
“I would prefer to hold you in my arms.” His dark eyes did not move from her face. “The first two sets then, so long as they are not the waltz.”
Marguerite’s mouth went unpleasantly dry. “Certainly. If you will excuse me, I see someone I need to speak with.”
“I will send a carr?—”
“No, I thank you. I will see my own way there.” She dipped a curtsy. “Until tonight.”
Armand bowed low, showing a deeper respect than her position warranted. “Until tonight.”
Marguerite felt his eyes on her for the duration of her walk through the High Street, past the chandler and toward the blacksmith. When she was far enough to let out a large breath, she realized what Armand had told Lady Faversham—he had requested Marguerite’s addition at the ball because of their sharedhome, not their shared homeland. Surely that was a mistake of the language.
She swallowed, crossing the road toward the forge. She followed the path through the trees, past the shop and toward the cottage. Curling her hand into a fist, she knocked on the door.
Anne opened it. Her blonde hair was tucked under a cap, and she wore a plain gown. She bobbed a curtsy. “Good day, Madame Perreau.”
“I know this is terribly strange, but is Mrs. Ruth Rose here with Mrs. Ridley at present?”
The servant showed no sign of finding this odd. “She is.”
