Page 66 of Lord Ramsey's Red-Headed Ruin
He spotted an alcove where no one stood—and he paused them both there, his back to the crowd. “Why are you here?”
“I must talk to you.”
“There is nothing—”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Come home with me tonight.”
He questioned her anxiety—and decided his own needed tending. “No.”
“I know no other way. I must… Ah,bon soir!Madame et Monsieur Dubonnet.How lovely to see you here. Might I introduce you to my friend, Lord Ramsey? Here on diplomatic duty.Oui.”
Ram had no choice but to grit his teeth and contribute to her charade. When the couple departed, his shock at her proposal had died at the hand of the obscene desire to accept her offer. To be alone with her—here, at her house, anywhere in the damn world—was not his wisest decision, but it would bring him more relief than he’d ever hoped for, at least for one night. “Do Gus and Whit know why?”
“No, monsieur. Please smile and pretend we are friends. I need you,” she said as if they were discussing the delights of being here for the entertainment.
“You have news?”
“Of many things.”
*
The group inthe theater box was subdued. Amber attributed it to the news that the relationship between Bonaparte and the British ambassador lately had grown chilly. When the Corsican frowned, many among the Parisianbeau mondeshivered. The fact that so many British appeared tonight was expected. For months, British in droves had taken the opportunity to come to Paris. It was indicative of their curiosity to taste the Parisian high and low life, but also to see what the French had become since the Terror. Certainly, the English aristocrats in their box this evening crowed over the fashion and the manners of those around them.
Kane, who expressed regrets for the absence of Gus tonight because of her delicate condition, occupied himself with introducing their newest countryman, Tate Cantrell, Lord Appleby, to society. Appleby appeared a jovial fellow. Or he had, until he froze once Charmaine Massey appeared on stage.
“Do you know her?” Amber asked, leaning toward him. She knew the actress as the sister of the young woman, Diane Massey, who had died so brutally at the hands of guards in Carmes Prison.
“Very well.” His broad, angular face had gone to stone at the sight of the petite blonde who commanded the stage. “Too well.”
Amber asked no more because her memories of Diane’s death were so dark. Over the years, she had heard of the Massey family’s troubles, fleeing the Terror with what they could wear and what they could pile into their pockets.
When Amber and Ram had lived in the house in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, he had told her it had once been owned by the family of Neufchateau. But she had pushed horrid memories of Diane’s death from her mind.
Meanwhile, Appleby was definitely interested in Charmaine as he leaned forward to examine the actress. Lost to anyone’s conversation, the man focused on the blonde beauty. He was mesmerized.
Amber was pleased at that. Seated to the left of Appleby, she was positioned closer to Ram. She could devote herself to getting him to talk to her.
That was difficult, but she had expected no less. He sat beside her, cool, composed, one long, muscular leg crossed away from her. His program in his hand, he pursed his mouth in a such a way that she saw etched there his desire to avoid her.
“Lord Appleby knows the actress,” she tried. “Have you heard of her before tonight?”
Ram did not even deign to look at her, but nodded. “I have seen her in a few comedies in London, yes. She is accomplished.”
“Word is that she supported her father’s mistress and her sister with her earnings in the theater.”
“So I have heard.” He did look at her then.
What she saw written on his features was a melting of his ice to the warmer fires of his regard for her.
“She is lovely,” she said, because her mind clouded with her desire and she could do nothing else but gaze at him.
As his pale blue eyes traced her hair and brows and lips, he met her regard, wordlessly telling her torrid tales of his longing. “Is she?”
It was no question, but a compliment to her.
