Page 48 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
She thrust herself away from him, sitting bolt upright. “What did you say?” She prayed that he would answer her in thefamiliar French accent. Looking puzzled by her reaction, he said, “I wished you a good morrow, love. It is one, is it not?”
“I-I suppose,” she stammered. What she wanted to cry out was, no! It was far from being a good morning when she had just realized her French lover was speaking to her in accents that might have been bred in the hills of Staffordshire. He might call himself Armande de LeCroix, but the man who had made love to her last night was an Englishman.
How long she had waited for Armande to make some mistake, to reveal his true nature. But why did it have to happen now, after what they had shared? She crossed her arms protectively over her breasts, feeling miserably aware of being naked in bed with a man who was little more than a complete stranger.
“Are you cold, sweetheart?” he asked. He still did not realize how he betrayed himself with every word. The intimacy between them had caused him to lower his guard. He tried to pull her back into his arms, but she squirmed to be free of him.
“No!” She said breathlessly. “I never intended to wake you. I am sorry.”
“Don’t be. I have never been awakened so pleasantly in my entire life.”
“But I really should be?—”
“Kissing me,” he said, giving one of her curls a playful tweak. She gave a hard shove, breaking his hold on her. Scrambling to the very edge of the bed, she tugged on the coverlet, holding it into place just above her breasts. “The servants will be up soon. I dare not be caught in here. It would be so difficult to explain.”
She could not even explain to herself the madness that had overtaken her, leaving her to set aside all her doubts and mistrust of Armande, to render herself as vulnerable as a woman could ever to be a man.
Armande raised himself to a sitting position, the warm glow on his countenance fading. He said slowly, “Yes, I suppose it is difficult.”
Her blush deepened. “I cannot seem to find my nightgown.”
He reached over the side of the bed and retrieved the linen garment from the floor. She all but snatched it from him. Considering all that had passed between them, would he laugh at her if she begged him to turn his head while she fled the room?
The request stuck in her throat. Before she could say anything, he rose from the bed himself. She averted her gaze as he shrugged himself into his breeches and shirt.
He came round the bed and silently held out to her his own dressing gown of wine-colored satin. She hesitated for a moment before taking it, then awkwardly scrambled into the garment. Tailored to accommodate Armande’s broad shoulders, it hung loosely upon her smaller frame. His musky male scent clung to the garment; donning it seemed almost as intimate a gesture as having made love to him.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Not exactly the latest mode in lady’s fashions, but the effect is quite charming.” He smoothed the fabric over her shoulders, unable to refrain from making the simple gesture a caress.
Phaedra felt a shiver of response run along her spine, but her mind condemned her mercilessly. How can you! You don’t even know who he really is.
She shrank away from Armande, knocking a candlestick off the night table. Nervously, she drew the ends of the dressing gown more tightly about her.
“I suppose I must look totally absurd.”
“You look like a guilty little girl who has been caught doing something naughty.”
“I have never have taken a lover before.” She heard her own words with dismay, not knowing why she said that, butsomehow finding it important that he should know. She added, laying pointed emphasis on the foreign words, “I fear, monsieur le marquis, that I lack your savoir faire in these matters.”
The thrust found its mark. She saw Armande flinch with realization of his mistake. But when he replied, he coolly slipped back into his accent with what Phaedra feared was the ease of long practice.
“I never supposed that you had, ma petite.” He approached her again, and she could see from the longing on his face how badly he wanted to gather her into his arms. Stiffening, she merely shook her head.
His outstretched arms dropped back to his sides. “And so now come the regrets, despite all your vows and protestations. I feared such would be the case. Only I never expected it to happen quite so soon.”
“Then what did you expect of me?” she cried. “I fear I am far too unsophisticated not to feel awkward, waking up in the bed of a man who has not even told me his true name.”
“We are harking back to that again, are we? Mon dieu, it didn’t take you long.” He closed the distance between them. Forcing her head up, he traced the sensitive skin beneath her eyes. “You look as though you have lain awake all night. Were you hoping that I’d talk in my sleep? I’ve had women bed me for many different reasons, but I must admit that this is a new?—”
He got no further for her hand lashed out, cracking across his cheek in response to his hurtful words. She lowered her stinging palm, stunned by what she had done-but not more stunned than Armande, who rubbed the red imprint left by her hand.
She spun away from him, running toward the threshold between their rooms. She felt she had crossed it a lifetime ago. With several quick strides, he caught her, whipping her around to face him.
“Let me go!” She struggled uselessly against the iron strength corded in his hands.
“No, Phaedra. Please.” His manner was gentle but urgent as he sought to restrain her. “I deserved your anger. But I cannot let you go this way. Please stay.”
