Page 67 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
“No.” Her mouth quivered into a lopsided smile. “I’m such a terrible liar.”
“One improves with practice.” Armande’s hard words seemed to mock himself more than her.
“The important question is whether you believe me,” she said.
“You cannot think that I seduced you in order to?—”
“It is not important whether I believe you or not.”
“Not important? How can you say that when this is wrenching us apart?”
“You cannot tear apart what never has truly been together.”
His words filled her with despair. “We have been living in a fool’s paradise, my dear. But even fools must eventually grow wise.”
Her arms slipped from around his neck, dropping back to her sides. It was as though his coldness had finally seeped into her heart, leaving her numb.
“Was it so foolish,” she asked, “your loving me?”
“The most stupid thing I’ve ever done.” His harsh answer caused her to flinch. “Love cannot survive where there is no trust. I realized that at the outset and should have spared us both this misery. There is no way you can ever have any faith in me, no way you will ever be able to trust me.”
She drew herself upright, stung by his words. All these weeks she had demanded no explanations, never pleaded to know his real name. What more proof of her love and trust did the man require?
Yet her anger was tinged with guilt. She had willingly closed her eyes and turned her head the other way. But self-deceit wasnot the same as trusting, putting complete faith in the man one loved. She had held back as much from Armande as he from her.
“You give up on our love far too easily, Armande,” she said. “If it is trust you want, I shall bring it to you. The kind you can hold between your hands.”
She ignored his bewildered frown as she ran from the room. She rushed to her garret, unlocked the desk drawer and yanked it open. Grabbing up a handful of the ribbon-bound papers, she raced back down to the music gallery.
Armande hovered upon the threshold as though he had been on the verge of coming after her. Phaedra shoved him back into the room, closing the door.
“Here,” she said. “This will show you how much I trust you.”
She tugged the ribbons off the paper and slapped the unfolded parchment upon a table before Armande, as though she were flinging down a gauntlet.
Armande regarded her uneasily. “Phaedra, I don’t understand.”
“Just read,” she commanded.
He picked up the sheets with reluctance and skimmed the black ink, his brow furrowing into an even deeper frown. “I still don’t understand. These seem to be some sort of political tracts, pages of text copied from what is that blasted paper? The Gazetteer?”
“Not copies,” she said. “The original drafts. What you see before you is the hand of Robin Goodfellow.”
She waited for his reaction, but he still looked confused.
“My hand,” she added.
The truth broke over him at last, his eyes flashing to meet hers in a startled expression. “You are Robin Goodfellow!”
“That’s right. So never again tell me that I cannot trust you. You are holding enough there to ruin me and my grandfather, as well.”
All color drained from his face as Armande clutched the sheets.
The first feelings of doubt niggled at Phaedra. She had not known quite what to expect from Armande at this moment. Amazement certainly, but where was his realization of how much she did love him? She had expected even a little praise perhaps, some pride in those achievements of her mind that he had always claimed to admire. What she had not expected was this silence.
“Don’t you understand what I have given you?” she cried. “It is my life bound up in those pages?—”
“It is you who do not understand!”
