Page 140 of Pride: The Rogue
She stopped when only three or so feet separated them and gave Livian another probing look.
“You believe I don’t. I can see as much in your eyes, Miss Lovelace.” She paused. “Just as I can see in your eyes, what a poor liar you are.”
Livian tensed. For such an offense, men had the luxury of calling other men out. “I am no liar, Your Grace.” Somehow, she managed to keep her voice even.
The duchess pressed a palm against her ample chest. “Oh, Miss Lovelace! I did not mean to offend you.”
“Well, you did,” Livian said carefully. Though the regal peeress had been so generous as to open her home and assist Livian in an attempt to secure a husband, Livian had too much pride to allow her—or for that matter, anyone—to question her honor.
Honor? This from the woman who made love to the duchess’ soon-to-be betrothed.
Livian’s heart spasmed.
“Forgive me for offending you. That was not my intention, Miss Lovelace. All I intended to point out was how much we have in common.”
The duchess truly believed she, a noble-born woman, and Livian, a bastard born to a bigamist, had anything in common? Imagine that, after everything that transpired this evening, Livian found herself fighting a smile.
“You think I am wrong,” the astute peeress remarked.
“No, Your Grace.” Livian didn’t think; sheknew. “I would not say that.”
“Ah, maybe not out loud, anyway.”
Unnerved, Livian struggled to maintain eye contact with the older, shrewder woman.
“No need to worry, Miss Lovelace.” Amusement rang in the widow’s musical tones. “I can’t and shan’t be offended.”
“Very well, I believe it would be fair to say, that given our backgrounds and circumstances, we are not at all alike.”
The duchess seized on Livian’s words. “And that is it exactly!” She jabbed a long, gloved finger in Livian’s direction with such ferocity she nearly poked her in the chest. “You look at your origins and see yourself as one who has known a hard, cruel life.
Displeasure lent a tightness to the austere lady’s countenance which somehow managed the seemingly impossible—it contorted her beauty into a thing of ugly.
Before Livian, stood a potential, and terrifying, enemy. Livian, however, had known enough fear and uncertainty to be uncowed by the lofty duchess.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Livian began softly. “I went without food. There were too many times we didn’t have wood to heat our fires, and even more winters I shivered badly from the harsh, cold London rains and the infrequent, but always freezing, snows.”
The duchess remained still and expressionless as Livian spoke.
“Even having survived through all that, Your Grace?” Livian continued. “My life was neither hard nor cruel. I had the love,” and still do, “of family.” Family whom, after this heartbreak, she’d need more than ever.
A slow, hideous smile brought the young widow’s lips tipping up in a macabre rendition of amusement. “How fortunate you were then.”
The other woman sounded anything but happy at Livian’s avowal.
At last, the Duchess of Argyll let go all pretense of warmth or mirth.
“Given that heartwarming soliloquy, Miss Lovelace, it appears your life has been charmed. It now occurs to me, thatyouwere the one with a storybook life.”
Livian bit the inside of her cheek to keep from pointing out there’d never been a storybook Livian had come across or read about which featured the bastard daughter of a bigamist.
“I gather you are trying to say your life has been anything but,” Livian murmured.
“I’m not trying to say it,” the duchess snapped. “Iamsaying it. Do you know anything aboutmypast?”
She knew some.
Yet again, Livian found herself treading carefully. “As one who finds herself frequently spoken of and about,” she said, “I would never dare engage in any such gossip or discussions about anyone.”
