Page 8 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
Even as she spoke, Phaedra winced in pained remembrance. The crowded assembly room, Ewan’s foot hooking around her ankle, tripping her into the line of dancers. “Your pardon,” Ewan had called out as he had hauled her up from the floor. “But I fear my wife tries to gallop through every dance as if it were an Irish jig.” Then as always, the cruel, cutting laughter.
Phaedra became aware of a strong hand at her waist, another clasping her palm. With a start, she came back to the present, realizing that she had almost blundered into the next set, but Armande discreetly guided her back into position.
“There, you see,” she said, feeling her cheeks burn. “I did try to warn you. As my husband was wont to say, I am not plagued by an overabundance of grace.”
“If there was grace found wanting, my lady, it would not be any fault of yours, but your partner’s.”
His lips came startlingly close to her ear until she felt the warmth of his breath. How could any voice so deep, so undeniably masculine, be also soft and caressing? She wondered if he could feel the tremor that passed through her and hailed with relief the next pattern of the dance that separated them.
What was she doing? she wondered as she circled the room. She had not informed him as she had planned, that she could do without his interference in her life. She had not asked him even one question. Now Armande had her by the hand again, pullingher close, outwardly maintaining all the formality, the ritual of the dance, while his fingers teased the sensitive hollow of her palm.
“My lord,” she said, trying to bring her disordered wits together, “I fear I have a complaint to lodge against you.”
He spoke as if he had not heard her, his voice pensive. “How sad you appeared a moment ago, my lady, so far away. As if some unhappy memory had risen to haunt you.”
Phaedra nearly snatched her hand away. What sort of man was this, that he could read her innermost thoughts? She began to regret greatly that she had removed her own mask. The marquis had her at a decided disadvantage.
“My grandfather, my lord,” she said, firmly steering him toward the one topic she wished to discuss. “You have been at great pains to convince him I should remain in Bath. Why?”
“Now that I have seen you, I almost regret my advice.” The look which accompanied these words made her pulse skip, made her nearly forget he had evaded her question.
“Only almost?” she challenged.
“I naturally assumed you would wish to live in seclusion, to be alone with your grief. According to yourgrandpere, it was your own idea to remove to Bath,n’est-ce pas?”
Phaedra could not deny this. The trip to Bath had been her doing. After Ewan’s accident, she had desperately needed some time alone, not to grieve, but to reconsider her future prospects away from the presence of her domineering grandfather. But that had always been a temporary measure. She now coldly informed the marquis, “I never intended to be banished to Bath for the rest of my life. I have had more than enough time to recover from my husband’s death.”
“And yet your widowhood is most recent.” The unfathomable blue eyes skimmed over her gown, lingering for the briefestmoment upon the creamy swell of breast exposed by her decolletage.
Phaedra stiffened, mustering all her defenses. Did he, too, look to criticize her for abandoning her widow’s weeds? What right had he to judge her? He understood no better than anyone else the six years of subtle hell that she had endured. When Ewan died, her tears had been tears of relief rather than sorrow.
“Yes, my widowhood is recent. Too recent to suit me. Ewan should have been in his grave a long time ago.” She looked at Armande to gauge the effect of her bitter words.
His eyes widened a moment before resuming their normal hooded expression. “There is no sadness at all in your heart for his death? Not one regret?”
“No!”
“But I understand your husband was a most—” He hesitated, as if searching for the correct word, “A most estimable man. Young, handsome, and intelligent.”
Phaedra was so weary of this eulogizing of Ewan Grantham. So charming, so handsome. Such a tragedy that he should perish so young, in such a gruesome riding accident. Now that he was dead, society would make him a saint, casting herself into the role of black-hearted villainess who had not shed one tear for that ‘estimable’ man. Even this cold, emotionless marquis took Ewan’s part. It was so unjust, for Lord Varnais did not know the truth of her life with Ewan. But if he wished to be as ignorant as the others, to perceive her as shallow and heartless, who was she to disappoint him?
As they went down the dance, Phaedra said, “Now that you mention it, I do have one regret. Ewan died in the autumn, and I was obliged to wear black for the Christmas holidays. I do so loathe black. It is not at all my color.”
“I would have thought black most becoming to you. Such a foil for that magnificent, fiery hair. “
Now she was certain that he mocked her. “La, sir, but you Frenchmen are smooth-tongued rascals. Are all those in your family so clever? I have never heard the name de LeCroix before. Where are you from?”
“France, my lady. It is where most Frenchmen are from.”
“Have you been in London long?”
“Scarcely long enough.”
Phaedra bit her lip in vexation. The man was a master of evasion.
“It is a perilous time for you to be enjoying yourself in London, my lord, is it not? Our two countries are drawing so close to a declaration of war. It is expected any day that your king will side with the American colonists, championing them in their quest for freedom.”
“That is a strange phrase to spring from the lips of an English lady. I suspect you have been reading too much of that-what is the name of that rogue- Robin Goodfellow?”
