Page 17 of The Exile's Curse

Regardless, his hand tightened over hers. "I should have known. I apologize."

It was the third time they'd met since her return, and his third apology.

She should tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that it was inevitable they would encounter each other, but she didn't want that to be true. And she couldn't bring herself to do the thing she should do and offer him forgiveness.

If a true friend would not give up her friendship so easily, then there was no way he could have considered himself a true friend. Not and do what he had done. And that was a wound far from healed despite all the time that had passed.

Even if theirs had been a light and airy friendship—or as light and airy as Lucien, who was always minded toward seriousness, could be. She'd often wondered if he'd been drawn to Charl, who was the very definition of light and charm, to balance his own darker calling. To cling to the part of light that she had thought must become very distant when one dealt too frequently with the darkest sides of people's hearts and minds and deeds.

Had he been so serious before he manifested his powers? She hadn't known him then. He was three years older than Charl, four years older than her. He'd been in his final year at the Academe the year she'd manifested, and she hadn't known him by more than sight and reputation. She had no real skill for illusion and therefore not a candidate for the advanced training that might have led to their paths crossing. Her few memories of him from the Academe were of a serious face above the black robes, illusioner silver at his collar.

"It's only another measure or two and the dance will be done," he said. "It would be better for you to stay with me until then. Anything else will only draw attention."

"I'm well aware how to behave, my lord," she said, resisting the urge to tread on his feet. He was nimble enough to dodge anyway.

"That's not what I meant," he said, mouth flattening briefly as he guided her through the next turn.

How were her feet still moving? She'd danced with Lucien plenty in the past, and he'd been a perfect partner, as graceful as Jean-Paul. She couldn't remember a single time when Lucien had stumbled or put a foot wrong during any of the many dances they'd shared. It had always been fun to dance with him, her teasing him gently and he offering back his own wit and smiles.

But now he felt foreign, and every word he spoke hit her exactly the wrong way, scraping at raw nerves.Only a minute more, she told herself. Her heart was pounding, and her face felt hot. Every muscle screamed to leave, but he was right. A scene would be worse.

The last notes sounded and she made herself leave her hand in his, waiting for him to release it, rather than rudely tugging it away.

When he did, she muttered, "Good night, my lord," as she curtsied faster than was strictly polite. Keeping her smile fixed, she turned and made her way from the dance floor. It was an effort to walk, not run. The room was stifling and suddenly too small as she headed for the doors. She left the ballroom and moved on instinct, toward the rear of the townhouse and the garden that lay beyond.

There was no guarantee the garden would be empty, but anywhere would be an improvement over the ballroom.

But when she stopped through the back door, no one was in sight. She moved deeper into the garden, hand clenched too tightly on the sticks of her fan as she tried to cool herself down and not give in to the urge to loosen the back of her dress so she could catch her breath.

She could breathe perfectly well. She wasn't foolish enough to lace too tightly.

Besides, if she did manage to undo the damned buttons, there was no way she'd be able to do them up again. Being discovered in Imogene's garden half undressed was not the way to avoid a scandal.

But her breath still came too fast.

Lucien.Damnhim.

She'd been doing well. Thinking it was possible that Imogene was right and she could become part of life in Lumia again. But the truth was it wasn't going to be so easy. She had been Madame de Montesse, Illvyan refugee and therefore automatically suspect and strange in Anglion. Here she was Madame de Montesse, either tragically fooled widow to those who believed the emperor's declaration, or likely traitor who had managed to get away with it to those who didn't.

That would change over time. She could live quietly and people would lose interest, as they had in Anglion. But that was exhausting to contemplate. She'd lost so much time already. Why did she have to fight again, here, where things had once been simple? She wanted to be somewhere where things could be simple again. Or at least where she had no reputation preceding her. Where people judged her on who she was and the skills and qualities she had to offer.

People who saw justher.

But she had no idea where that might be.

A sob caught in her throat.

"Chloe?" Imogene's voice came softly from behind her. "What's wrong?"

She didn't turn to face her friend. Didn't want Imogene to see her so close to undone. They'd cried back in Anglion, when they'd finally been alone together, after the shock of the rescue attempt and the assassination of Queen Eloisa and the upheaval that had followed in its wake. She'd been determined not to cry again. She was home. She should be happy.

"I'm all right," she managed.

"Jean-Paul told me Lucien was here," Imogene said. "I'm sorry, love. I didn't invite him. And I didn't imagine that he would just appear. He isn't a regular at our parties."

Just her luck. The one night Lucien de Roche decided to kick up his heels was the night she took her first tentative step back toward society.

"I don't care about the Marq of Castaigne," she said savagely.

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