Page 34 of The Lyon Whisperer
“There’s not much to tell—”
“Please,” she said, placing one delicate hand on his forearm. “Tell me something only a wife would know.”
At her touch, her gentle plea, the blood in his veins turned to liquid fire. He could think of something very personal he could share with his wife—and at the moment, little else.
He clamped down on the desire pounding through him. He was a man, not a boy. He could manage his attraction for this slip of a woman, damn it.
“What do you want to know?” he all but snapped.
She withdrew her hand at the brusqueness of his tone, but she did not back down. “Tell me of your parents. They both died?”
His parents were his least favorite subject on the face of the earth. “My father died in battle when I was sixteen. That’s when I came to live with my aunt and uncle. My mother…” He paused to sip his brandy, then sent her a grim smile. “Left when I was twelve. It was quite the scandal.”
Her brows furrowed and pity filled her eyes. “What do you mean, she left? Where did she go?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask her.” He meant his words to be off-putting.
Her soft expression never wavered. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how she could have done that to you, or your father.”
He meant not to answer. Instead he heard himself state in a cold hiss, “My mother cared for no one but herself, and my father cared for no one but her, despite the fact she tormented him at every turn.”
There. She’d drop the subject now.
“How did she torment him?”
For some reason her gentle tone and refusal to be intimidated irritated him, and instead of changing the subject he went on. “She constantly threatened to leave him, to return to France, her native country—which, she eventually did. She told him of her many lovers, and flirted outrageously, right in front of him. She even claimed on occasion I was not his.”
Her liquid blue-violet eyes welled with tears. “You overheard this?”
He nodded, reaching for the old coldness and not finding it. Instead, his chest burned like fire. “It was a patently false statement, of course. I was the spitting image of my father, but the idea of her with other men drove him half mad. I don’t think she lied about that part.
“One day she just, up and left. The gossip mill went wild over the news. After that, my father re-upped his officer’s commission and sent me off to Eton. He remained on constant deployment, requesting the most dangerous arenas. I think he wanted to die. Just before my sixteenth birthday, he got his wish.”
She set her nearly empty glass on the mahogany table beside her and gazed at him, her face somber. Sympathy, not pity, shone in her eyes, and something else he could not discern.
“I’m so sorry, Chase. Thank you for telling me. I will guard your confidence to my last breath.”
He blinked. He hadn’t known what he expected her to say, but it damn sure hadn’t been that. He lifted his glass to his lips and drained the last of the liquid. He set the empty glass beside hers with a decisive click.
“On that note. It’s getting late. Shall I walk you up to—”
“Chase, would you like…that is…” She broke off and sunk her white teeth into her plump lower lip.
For God’s sake, what did she want to ask now?
“What is it?” he demanded, allowing his annoyance to show.
In truth he was annoyed with himself for his lapse of control, rather than at her for asking personal questions. She’d made no bones about the fact she wanted to become well-acquainted. It was his own code not to let anyone too close he’d broken.
“Well?” He expected her to look cowed.
He ought to know better by now. His wife was no shrinking violet, despite the color of her eyes.
She drew herself up as if a string attached to the crown of her head to pull her perfectly erect. She locked eyes with him. When she spoke, her voice was low and amazingly self-assured. “I wondered if you wouldn’t like to kiss me again.”
Chapter Eight
Amelia congratulated herselfon maintaining a veneer of sublime confidence after blithely asking Chase if he wanted to kiss her again. Inside she was a mass of quaking nerves.
