Page 32 of Thief of the Ton
He let out a laugh. “Miss de Grande, you are quite the misfit.”
His words stung, and she moved away from him and crossed the floor to the tall, glass-paneled doors that led out onto a balcony overlooking a vast, manicured garden. On seeing the balcony unoccupied, she slipped through the doors and drew her shawl around her against the evening air.
She heard footsteps and the rattle of crockery.
“You forgot your coffee, Miss de Grande.”
Lord Marlow stood in the doorway, coffee cup in hand. He held it out.
“Will you accept a peace offering?” he asked. “I spoke out of turn, and for that, I apologize.”
His voice carried a note of sincerity, and his eyes betrayed no subterfuge. She took the cup and lifted it to her nose. The aroma of coffee caressed her senses. Deep, rich, and exotic, it was something that Papa could no longer afford. Lavinia recollected the aroma from her childhood, but she’d never been permitted to taste it.
“Perhaps you’ll forgive the incivilities of an old friend,” he added.
“What do you mean, an old friend? I haven’t met you before tonight.”
“Don’t you recognize me?”
“If this is an attempt at flattery, it won’t work onme, sir,” she said.
Once again, she caught a flicker of hurt in his eyes. Then he shook his head. “Perhaps it was too much to expect you to remember after so long,” he said, “but I have never forgotten my little friend—my little Guinevere.”
Guinevere…
Her heart skittered in her chest, and the cup slipped from her grasp. He darted forward, grasped the cup, and took her hand. She drew in a sharp breath as the fizz of desire rippled through her body at his touch.
Then she looked up and met his gaze.
Those eyes…
“No—it can’t be,” she said. “Youcan’tbe my Arthur…”
“Would you pierce my heart and tell me that you don’t remember the knight who swore to protect you until he drew his last breath?”
“Of course I remember!” she cried. “But are youreallyhe?”
He squeezed her hand, then held it against his breast. “Don’t be sad, little Guinevere,” he said. “I swear to protect you from dragons and brigands, on my honor, according to the codes of chivalry.”
Her heart fluttered as he spoke the same promise that her King Arthur had uttered long ago.
Perhaps that was why her body had reacted when she saw him tonight, because it recognized whom she had been longing for in her dreams.
“It’s been fourteen years,” she said. “How did you recognize me?”
His eyes crinkled into a smile. “Did I not say I’d always watch over you?”
But he hadn’t, in the end. He’d abandoned her and Papa, just like everyone else, save Lady Betty.
She turned her head away. What had Lady Betty said about placing a man on a pedestal?
No man deserves to be worshipped as if he were a god, darling Lavinia. For, when faced with the ultimate test of their mettle, they invariably fail. The demands of Society—the attractions afforded by their rank and fortune—will render them far too selfish to be worthy of our adoration.
Lady Betty was right. Men were weak souls who preyed upon each other like scavengers fighting over a carcass.
Papa’s ruination had opened Lavinia’s eyes to the ways of the world. And it had shown her who her true friends were—not the sycophants who would have liked her merely for her dowry and social position, but the rare individuals, like Lady Betty and her new friends Henrietta and Eleanor, who truly cared.
But Arthur—herArthur—the boy she’d idolized, stood before her, now, as potent a man as ever there could be. Yet even he had proven to be a disappointment.
