Page 6 of The Traitor
She took the rose from him and consideredhisbouquet. “Here, I think.”
He’d reserved the longest stem for last, and she’d used it as the centerpiece of the arrangement, English-fashion.
“Very nice, Miss Danforth. Now where will you put it?”
Her scent was very nice too, mostly sweet lavender, reminding him all too powerfully of summers in Provence. An English baron in his English household ought not to be homesick for old monasteries and French sunshine. He leaned in and sniffed the delicate purple flowers anyway, right there in front of her.
“Your aunt wanted an arrangement for your piano. She said you play a great deal, and she wanted them where you could see them. Does that suit?”
“No, it does not.” The last thing he wanted was a reminder of his past when he came to the piano for solitude and solace. “Water and musical instruments are not a prudent combination.”
“Then you decide, my lord.” She passed him the vase, roses, lavender, and all, and began tidying up the detritus of his design.
He set the bouquet aside and took a step closer, an impulse intended to intimidate a small, plain woman who did not understand with whom she tangled. He considered how best to acquaint her with her multiple errors in judgment.
“Blast!” She did not apologize for her oath, but brought the fourth finger of her left hand to her mouth.
“A thorn?”
She nodded and drew her damp finger from her mouth, frowning at it. “Roses are overrated, I tell you. No wonder we equate them with true love.”
Her comment, the scathing tone in which she’d delivered it, told him much. He wrapped his handkerchief around her finger, and thus had a means of ensuring she didn’t flounce off before he’d achieved his objective.
“The bleeding will stop momentarily, Miss Danforth.”
“I know that.”
Her composure was jeopardized by their proximity, which should have pleased Sebastian. The simplest form of intimidation was physical, though to use his sheer size and masculinity against her was unappealing.
Unsporting, to use the English term.
And yet, he did not step back or turn loose of her hand. “Who was he?”
She glowered at their joined hands, her loathing not quite hiding the hurt in her eyes.
“My cousin’s choice, one I’m far better off without.” Hurt was there in her words too.
“I will tell my aunt that should any gentlemen followers come calling on you, she is not to leave you alone with them, no matter what flattery or tricks they attempt, or how strongly she is tempted to matchmake, for matchmaking is one of her besetting sins.”
If Sebastian had been asked, he would have said the emotion in Miss Danforth’s brown eyes most closely resembled sorrow. “Thank you.”
The flattery and tricks that had gone before had been bad, then. Bad enough that she’d given up much in the way of a genteel lady’s comforts to find refuge in service. Englishmen were a disgraceful lot when their base urges beset them, which was to say, most of the time.
He unwrapped his handkerchief and inspected her hand. “You will live, I think. Keep the handkerchief. It is silk and has my initials on it. When your cousins come to call, you shall wave it around under their noses, and not too subtly, yes?”
Every person in a garrison, every mongrel dog and mouser in the stables, was the responsibility of the commanding officer. Sebastian had still not ascertained quite enough to let this soldier get back to her appointed duties.
“I will flourish it about indiscriminately, my lord. My thanks.”
He did not step back, but continued to study her. Her eyes were really quite pretty. “And if these cousins realize the mistake they’ve made? If this sorry choice of theirs comes to his senses and tries to woo you into his arms again?”
She did not step back either, and sorrow turned to dignified, ladylike rage—a fascinating transformation.
“That will not happen, my lord. In any case, I would not go. My fian—hemade it plain that my shortcomings will not be overcome to his satisfaction, whereas your aunt offers me a decent wage and comfortable surrounds in exchange for my simple presence. For all her friends and callers, my lord, I think Lady St. Clair is lonely. One does not turn one’s back on a woman who can, however indirectly, admit she’s lonely.”
Quite the speech. Quite the speech from a woman who knew what it was to be abandoned by those who’d given her promises of constancy. He spent a moment pretending to examine the bouquet while he analyzed her words.
“Then you expect to be inTante’s employ for some time?”
