Page 49 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
Tears spilled down her cheeks. Armande forced her head against his chest. He rocked her in his arms, saying huskily. “Hush, ma chere. Don’t cry. I never wanted to hurt you.”
Phaedra resisted a moment longer, then sagged against him.
“Forgive me, Phaedra.” He pressed his lips against the crown of her head. “I had no right to be resentful of your doubts. You should have doubts about me. God knows, I have done nothing to allay your suspicions.”
“If you would just tell me who you really are. What you want here at the Heath.”
He cradled her head between his hands, using his thumbs to wipe the tears from her cheeks. She thought she had never seen such a depth of sadness in anyone’s eyes as she saw in Armande’s. He put her from him, turning to fetch a square of white linen from the dressing table. He handed her the handkerchief, then almost hesitantly reached for something else.
Brushing aside the tears blurring her vision, she watched as Armande lifted the same small chest she had once tried, without success, to peer into. It was as though within the confines of that box reposed all the hidden thoughts that tormented him. Phaedra caught her breath as she sensed the struggle raging within him, the urge to unlock those secrets, set them free.
He spoke at last, his voice taut with anguish. “I cannot. I cannot even ask you to trust me.”
She knew the struggle was lost as he carefully returned the box to its place on the night table. He walked over to stand by the window.
She could sense his retreat in every rigid line of his body, the sunlight streaming through the window merciless in its illumination of the harsh lines carved on his face, making him look jaded with weariness.
“The wager is settled,” he said. “You have given me my night. I will leave your grandfather’s house today.”
His words struck her with dismay. “You will leave? But why? It was not you who lost the wager.”
“We both lost, ma chere. Before we had even begun.”
“Are you doing this as some sort of gallant gesture to protect me?” she asked. “I have looked out for myself any number of years now. It is not as though I were a green girl.”
He laughed softly.”You will always be a green girl. It is one of your charms. I think you must be the most vulnerable woman I have ever known, save one.”
She started indignantly to refute his words, then broke off, recalling that her behavior this morning was not calculated to contradict him. She blew her nose into the handkerchief with a defiant sniff. He had not intended to leave the Heath upon awakening this morning. She was sure of that, remembering the glow in his eyes as he had first reached for her, the warmth of his kiss. This change in him was her fault. She had overreacted, to discovering that all her worst suspicions were true, that he was indeed an impostor. Perhaps if she had not slunk about as though she were ashamed, frightened, blubbering all over him, if she had behaved differently ...
But it was of no use to consider that now, she thought, studying the immutable set of Armande’s jaw. What could she do? Fling all pride and common sense to the winds and beg him to stay? No, Armande was right. It was far better that they not continue to reside under the same roof. She had known that herself from the very beginning.
She could only salvage what was left of her pride and exit with dignity. “When will you go?” she asked.
“As soon as possible, I think. After breakfast.”
So soon! A part of her wanted to protest. Instead, she nodded briskly, replacing his crumpled handkerchief upon the dressing stand. He crossed the room to her side. If only he would hold out his arms to her as he had done before.
But he did not. Instead he sketched her a formal bow. Raising her hand, he just barely grazed it with his lips. “Farewell, my lady.”
Phaedra stifled a hysterical laugh at the absurdity of it. He,clad only in breeches and shirt, his hair yet tousled from their lovemaking, she with his dressing gown half-falling off her naked shoulder-and they were behaving like mere acquaintances, parting after tea. Yet she had no choice but to see the farce through to its end.
“Farewell, my lord.”
He didn’t release her hand. His eyes traveled over her as though he were trying to memorize every detail of her.
“You only meant you are leaving the Heath, is that not so?” she asked anxiously. “You are not leaving London, as well.”
A deep sigh escaped him. “No, I cannot leave London as yet. There is something I came to do. But until that task is accomplished, I think it best that we do not meet.”
She could make little sense of his cryptic words, only understanding one fact. He meant this to be a final farewell. Without realizing what she did, Phaedra’s fingers tightened over his. It was as though a huge chasm yawned between them, but only Armande could see what lurked at the bottom. It wasn’t fair.
“And when this task of yours is done—” She could not keep the plea from her voice. “What then?”
“When my task is done,” he said with a conviction that chilled her. “you will never want to see me again.”
Eleven
Hours later, Phaedra still could not get Armande’s words out of her mind. Shut away in her garret, she sat at her desk, failing to notice the ink dripping from her quill pen onto the page until it was too late. She made a halfhearted attempt to blot the stain, Armande’s grim prophecy echoing in her mind. You won’t ever want to see me again.
