Page 24 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
He didn’t answer her, but his smile unnerved her. With each step she took backward, he stalked closer, until she felt the edge of the fireplace pressing against her spine, leaving her no further room to retreat.
“I suppose you think I owe you an apology,” she said. “Maybe I do. You might be pleased to know all of Gilly’s questions accomplished nothing, except perhaps to make me feel somewhat foolish for mistrusting you.”
Was it her imagination, or did she sense a slight relaxing in Armande’s whipcord taut frame.
“And does this mean you no longer mistrust me?” he demanded. “You are now satisfied. There will be no more questions?”
“I-I—” she stammered. How did he expect her to reply when his lips drew so near to her own?
“I suppose not,” she said. He cradled her face between his hands. Although she made a faint protest, she felt strangely unable to resist. Her heart thundering in ears, she half closed her eyes, fully expecting him to kiss her. His strong fingers were surprisingly gentle as he stroked back the hair from her brow.
“No more questions,” he murmured. “Ah, Phaedra, I wish I could believe you, but already I fear I know you too well.”
He brushed his lips against her forehead, and then abruptly released her. There was something disturbingly final about the way Armande had embraced her, as though he bade her farewell. His blue eyes were warm with regret, his smile tinged with sadness. Somehow the expression frightened her more than any of his threats had ever done.
The footman,John, held back the chair at the foot of the long dining table. Phaedra sank into the hostess’s seat, her head swimming a little, although she had not tasted so much as a drop of wine. For once she could not attribute her reeling senses to the heat of the room. It all stemmed from the tangle of emotion generated by the enigmatic man who now seated himself at her right.
What had happened between herself and Armande only bare moments ago? She thought if she closed her eyes she would still be able to feel his hands caressing her face, that gentle kiss which had somehow seared her more than the most heated embrace. For a brief space of time, all her mistrust had been swept away, her defenses lowered. She frowned. Or had it been Armande who had momentarily dropped his guard?
If that were so, he had it firmly back in place. As she signaled to the footmen to begin serving the first course, she covertly studied Armande. If anything, he appeared even more withdrawn; but Phaedra could not be certain if was she whom he wished to distance himself from, or the rest of the company gathered.
Her gaze traveled past him down the length of the table, the pristine white linen cloth covered with the glitter of crystal, china and silver-plate, and the candelabrum of blue jasper. Only with difficulty had Phaedra kept her grandfather from displaying every piece of expensive tableware that he owned.
She caught glimpses of Weylin’s face framed between the branches of the candlesticks. His lips pursed with smug satisfaction as the ladies exclaimed over the table setting. Their husbands expressed more pleasure at the sight of the steaming soup tureen and silver platters laden with meat.
A marquis and Wedgwood china, leek soup and mutton dressed with French sauce. How easily impressed these people were! Immediately Phaedra felt ashamed of herself for being so snobbish. Her grandfather’s merchant friends were decent folk, well-mannered and intelligent. It was only that their conversation was more likely to center about the Royal Exchange rather than Sheridan’s latest play or the witty speech Lord Chatham had made in the House of Lords today.
Not that Weylin’s so-called noble guests showed any disposition to discuss such interesting topics, either. Sir NorrisByram slurped his soup with such violent enthusiasm that he spattered the cuffs of poor Jonathan, who sat opposite him. Lord Danby had sobered up enough to take his seat at the table. He plucked out his quizzing glass and proceeded to inspect everyone with great astonishment as though he had not seen any of them until just that moment. He paused when his inspections reached Phaedra’s end of the table, focusing on Armande. As much, Phaedra thought with scorn, as Arthur Danby ever focused on anyone.
“Stap me, sir,” Lord Arthur said, “but we’ve met before.” Armande dismissed Danby with one bored sweep of his ice-blue eyes. “Aye, in the green salon but a half-hour past.”
Danby beamed, looking quite pleased with himself. “So we did. Never forget a face.” He squinted at Armande for a few moments longer, then shrugged.
Phaedra picked at the food on her plate. She had little appetite for any of the fancy dishes dressed by her grandfather’s new French chef-one more indication of Armande’s influence. Although the rest of the guests chatted amicably enough, the first hour of the meal passed for her in a kind of isolated silence.
She was hardly aware of any of them but the tall, proud Frenchman seated so close to her. She had but to reach out for her hand to brush against his. Yet Armande directed his attention toward the woman seated on the other side of him, his broad shoulder and his averted profile providing as much a barrier as if he had erected a wall between himself and Phaedra.
The fluttery Mrs. Eulalie Shelton dropped her spoon, looking ready to faint when Armande fixed his gaze upon her. I should have never seated her near the marquis, Phaedra fretted. The tiny wool draper’s wife was a timid soul, easily overwhelmed.
But to Phaedra’s surprise, the lines of Armande’s face relaxed. Even his voice grew gentle as he strove to make Mrs.Shelton feel at ease, feigning interest in commonplace topics such as the Wedgwood china.
“I prefer Mr. Josiah’s fancier sort myself.” The elderly woman at last became brave enough to venture. “The kind with the Etruscan ladies dancing in the center.”
“Ah, but madame, the china is mostelegantewhen the design is kept simple.” Armande indicated the deceptively plain mint-green border that scrolled the rim of his saucer. He displayed an astonishing knowledge as he went on to describe the Dysart glazing process, which gave the china its lighter tints.
Phaedra could only shake her head. She wondered if the day would ever come when she would know Armande well enough that he would cease to amaze her. She would have wagered that most of his pastimes would be far more dangerous than the collecting of china.
Armande had Mrs. Shelton quite relaxed by the time the platters of the second course were served. Much to Phaedra’s embarrassment, the conversation veered from the cups and saucers to herself.
“Poor dear Lady Grantham,” Mrs. Shelton whispered to Armande in a voice meant for his ears alone. “So young to be a widow. Her husband’s death was shockingly sudden. You see, he was out riding on his estates up north when he suffered the most horrid accident.”
“So I had heard,” Armande said. He did not seem as eager to discuss Ewan Grantham’s death as he had the china.
But Mrs. Shelton, made comfortable by Armande’s previous kindness as well as two cups of claret, persisted. “The Grantham family has seen more than its share of tragedy. Did you know that Lord Ewan saw his own father murdered in this very house!”
“Indeed?”
Mrs. Shelton heaved a great sigh. “Poor Lord Carleton.”
