Page 42 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
She spun around with a tiny cry. Armande stood framed just inside the door. Dressed for dinner, his garb appeared as elegant as though he had but returned from an assembly. But he had not taken the time to powder his hair, and the dark strands were pulled back into a severe queue.
“Armande.” Phaedra could have fallen upon him with a sob of relief. She was only halted by his expression. His eyes blazed at her like a fire ready to rage out of control and consume her. She had oft wondered how the icy marquis might look when angered. Now she knew. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
“Astonishing,” he said.”One might almost fancy you were glad to see me, milady.”
He stalked into the room, but Phaedra’s courage deserted her. She did not wait to see what he meant to say or do next. Regardless of her grandfather’s startled expostulation and Jonathan’s look of surprise, she bolted from the salon.
She ran blindly, seeking by instinct the one place she felt safe. Her feet just touched the stairs leading to her garret when her heart leaped into her throat. Dear God, he was coming after her.
She shot forward and almost hurled herself through the door to her garret room, but she was not fast enough. She tried toslam the door closed behind her, but Armande’s hand thrust through the opening, blocking her attempt. She let go, retreating further into the room. Armande stepped inside, slamming the door behind him.
The last rays of the dying sun cast shadows over his haughty profile, accenting the high arch of his cheekbones, his lean face hollowed by anger. His eyes glinted like points of steel.
Phaedra glanced wildly behind her, but there was nowhere to retreat. Where were her grandfather and Jonathan?
As Armande crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps, she held up one hand in a weak effort to ward him off. “You make one move to touch me, and I’ll scream.”
He halted but a sword’s breadth from where she shrank against the wall. He didn’t have to touch her. She could feel the fury crashing from him like invisible waves.
“Whatever is amiss, Phaedra? You look so pale. Has my return astonished you that much?” He abandoned the mocking tone, a quiver of suppressed rage rippling along his jaw. “You damned little fool. Did you really think they would hold me once they knew who I was, once I had paid the cost of that cursed ring?”
Phaedra only pressed herself back further against the wall, unable to meet his angry, accusing gaze.
“Answer me, Phaedra! What did you think they were going to do to Armande de LeCroix, the most noble Marquis de Varnais?” There was self-mockery in the way he pronounced his name, the bark of laughter that accompanied it striking cold to her heart.
She found her voice at last. “I don’t know. I only thought to-to?—”
“To have me hanged?” He loomed so close, if she but breathed she would brush up against him. His harsh voice grated against her ear. “They don’t hang aristocrats,ma chere, or fling them into rat-infested cells. With a few bribes I could belodged in an apartment fit for a king, no matter what I’d done. Even if I were to snap your deceitful little neck.”
“Why don’t you do it, then?” she choked. “You threatened to destroy me once, didn’t you? Go on and finish what you tried to do last night.”
She was mad to goad him thus, sensing he teetered on a dangerous brink the self-contained marquis seldom reached. Yet wracked by guilt and fear, Phaedra hovered too near her own snapping point to care.
The fury still burned in Armande’s eyes, but she detected a flicker of uncertainty, as well. “Last night?” he repeated.
She looked up at him, incredulous that he could keep up his pose of innocence even now. “Stop it. I am not a fool. I know it was you who locked me in with Danby. So you can just stop pretending.”
Long moments passed as he stared at her. She saw the light of anger slowly die, to be replaced by the inscrutable expression she so hated. It was as though his abandoned fury coursed into her, the overwrought emotions of many endless hours breaking forth in a furious flood of tears.
“Damn you! I said stop pretending.” His image blurred before her eyes as she slammed her fist against his chest, again and again. As immutable as a wall of stone, he made no effort to stop her, merely waiting until her arm dropped weakly to her side.
“Damn you to hell,” she repeated in a whisper. He caught her as she swayed and collapsed weeping against him, then lowered her onto the Jacobean daybed. Phaedra struggled out of his arms, muffling her sobs into a silk pillow giving full rein to the storm that had been brewing inside her all afternoon.
It seemed an eternity before she could halt the flow of her tears and regain a semblance of composure. At last, she satup, drawing in deep breaths. She almost believed Armande had gone.
He hadn’t. He sat poised near her on the edge of the daybed. He extended his lace handkerchief to her, all traces of his anger vanished, like a tempest that had never been.
After a moment’s hesitation, she accepted the handkerchief and applied the linen to her eyes.
“And now, milady,” Armande said. “If you will not again attempt to thrash me for asking, what about last night? Let us imagine that I know nothing, and explain to me your remark about Arthur Danby.”
“You locked me in the Gold Room with him.” She glared at Armande through swollen eyes, hating him for so easily having regained his composure when she was sure she must look like the very devil. Her voice sounded tinny, almost childish with accusation as she continued. “Then you fetched my grandfather by pretending you wanted to see the paintings upstairs, hoping he’d catch me with Danby. You knew full well what he’d do if he thought I was-was engaged in some illicit conduct.” She sniffed. “What a perfect scheme to be rid of me and my troublesome curiosity.”
“The Gold Room. But when I entered there, Danby was passed out cold and there was no sign of you—” Armande broke off, his gaze flying to her scratched hands. “The open window! You little idiot! You could have broken your neck.” He flushed with anger again, but of a far different kind than she had seen upon his face before. She did not feel threatened, although Armande looked ready to shake her.
“I thought that was the idea,” she said, although she was no longer so certain herself. Could the most brilliant actor in the world possibly appear as shaken and surprised as Armande did at this moment? She continued stubbornly, “I suppose that if you couldn’t manage to ruin me, my death would serve as well.”
“Then that was why you placed that ring in my pocket today? For revenge?”
