Page 84 of The Devil in Her Bed
Christ, she missed them.
She looked over at Chandler, whose wolfish eyes devoured the script again and again. She’d thought the kindness of her father would warm him. Would touch his wounded heart while absolving the Hargraves of any wrongdoing in his eyes.
So why did his skin mottle so? The flush splashed from beneath the high collar of his suit. His aristocratic nose flared with increasing breaths and his brow fell heavier over wild, wide eyes.
Little twitches became apparent on his features. She saw in the lips he pulled back from his eyeteeth in the semblance of a snarl. His right eye blinked more violently than the left and a vein she’d never noticed before throbbed at his temple.
It wasn’t the reaction she’d expected at all. The opposite, in fact.
Then, quite suddenly, all traces of emotion vanished in a transformation no less than mythical. One momenthe was a man, and the next he was a pillar of stone. Cold. Remote.
Unreachable.
The change terrified her more than any display of temper could have.
“I understand why you’re angry,” she said, attempting to placate him. “Your intelligence was faulty, and that wasted a great deal of time.” She stepped closer and reached for him.
He backed away, crushing the letter in his fist. “No. No, it fucking wasn’t.”
“What? Stop that! Give over that letter. It’s all that’s left of my—of our childhood.” She’d almost said her father.
He thrust it at her and she took it, smoothing the corners.
“That foolish fuck,” he said with a flat, droll affect.
“I beg your pardon?” The tether on her temper, short and thin as it was, began to slip. “This man admired you.” She shook the paper at him. “He wanted to take you in, to give you a future. What about that is foolish? You were an orphan and he was an endlessly decent man. The best of men, I daresay.”
He shook his head, backing away from her, inching toward the door. “We should leave. Now.”
“But—” She took another step forward, and he held a hand up against her.
Suddenly she felt like a child again, desperate and unsure. Brash and hurt by his diffidence. “What is wrong?” she pleaded. “I don’t understand.”
Something in her features must have spoken to himbecause his face softened a mere increment. “I know.” He let out an eternal breath. “I know.”
“Let’s go to that pub and get that meal,” she ventured. “We can talk about this. You can tell me why you’re being so very odd.”
He gave his head a curt shake. “I have to go to the Secret Services.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.”
“No?” she gritted out through ever-clenching teeth. “Have you not yet learned how I react to the wordno?”
For a moment his eyes turned amber and molten, but that disappeared as he spoke to her with a jaw just as hard and insolent as hers. “Tell me, Francesca, do you have any idea where you are supposed to meet the Crimson Council tonight?”
Her eyes shifted to the side and she crossed her arms, hiding the precious letter from him. “Well… not exactly. Kenway said a notice would be sent.”
“Wouldn’t it behoove us both, then, to have you waiting at your home when it arrives?”
“Yes,” she conceded carefully. “But can you not at least share what significance this has—”
“No time for that.” He whirled and strode toward the main door. “I’ll explain everything when I return the horse.”
She rushed after him, taking quick light steps to his heavy long ones. “When will that be?” she asked.
“I cannot say.”
