Page 11 of Love Unraveled
He hesitated for a moment as though he was going to say something further, looking from her to Gaston and back again, but in the end, he was an obedient man, whether he liked his orders or not.
“Satisfied?” she asked.
Gaston stared at the closed door before looking at her. “He could be lying.”
“He could be. But I assure you, he is not.”
She grabbed her glass, strolled to the side table, and poured some more. Gaston could get his own. After all this time apart, for Gaston to have begun with a ludicrous accusation was unacceptable. Carmine had taken her in when her aunt had died and had ensured her safety from the ever-changing political climate. Gaston had been gone three years when the count had suggested marriage. She owed him her loyalty, even in memory. What did she now owe Gaston?
She turned around and leaned back against the table, eyeing him over the rim of her glass. He stood where she’d left him, and her heart skipped a little at the sight of him in her drawing room, something she’d never imagined she would see. He had been taken. He could not help that. She must forgive him her abandonment. But sixteen years had passed. The pain of loss mingled again with rising outrage. Sixteen years.
Sophia set her glass on the table and crossed her arms. “It was not your fault you did not return that night. But you appear to be a free man, and you did not come back to me at all. It is not Raimondo who should be cowering under questioning; it is you. Where have you been?”
Chapter Seven
O! never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seemed my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from myself depart
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie.
—Shakespeare, “Sonnet 109”
Gaston did notknow whether to laugh or take Sophie into his arms and teach her who was in charge. She’d never been a dormouse, but she’d become a formidable woman. One who was confident she had full control of this reunion. She was wrong. He would tell her what he wished her to know. And he would make her see the injustice of her behavior.
“I was dragged along with the army for months, but I would serve no man except one who was rightfully on the throne. Eventually, I was left at the fortress,Bitche, where I rotted for two years. With the help of a guard sympathetic to the cause, I escaped with a British officer and came with him to England.”
Sophie’s mask dropped, her chocolate eyes growing rounder before narrowing. “You have been here all along?”
“Non. I returned to the continent.”
He said it casually and strolled toward her, watching her face to see if she’d known he’d returned toVenise. If she did, she was a remarkable actress, for he could see no sign of it. She stiffened as he neared. He paused, her scent washing over him, so close he could smell the cognac on her breath.
“Veuille m’excuser,” he said, reaching past her to the decanter on the table. He took a clean glass and poured a generous amount. “I find myself thirsty.” His arm brushed against hers, and she shuddered. He smiled. She was not immune to him.
She marched away. Gaston turned to watch her as she settled back on the sofa, her haughtiness evident even from the back. No, she was not immune, but she was resisting it. And what of him? His desire for her had not abated, but nor had his anger at her betrayal. He, too, would resist. He would say his piece and be done with the memory of her. Of them. Finally.
Gaston took a large sip and sauntered back to his chair, not looking at her until he was comfortably seated. He, too, could play the game of insouciance. He crossed his legs and settled his glass on the side table. He’d yet to meet a more beautiful woman than Sophie. Her thick ebony hair, shining in the lamplight, was twisted elegantly up, but he’d seen it down, run its silky strands between his fingers, and his body burned at the memory. Her skin, so like her mother’s and so unlike the English’s penchant for paleness, was flawless. Age lines so thin he’d only seen them when he’d stood face-to-face. Time had been kind to his Sophie.His?She was not his, may never have been, and he’d best not forget it.
“Are you through taking inventory of me?” she asked.
Oh yes, Sophie was definitely no dormouse, but nor was she the tigress she perceived herself to be. There was vulnerability in her eyes, a shifting uncertainty. Did she fear a confrontation? Had Carmine told her he had finally come for her? Would she admit it if he had?
“I returned to the continent.” He had not forced Raimondo to tell her of his return, for he wanted to assess her reaction himself.
“Yes, you have said so,” she snapped. “But not to me.” She, too, set her drink aside. “Not to me despite the fact you promised. You promised, Gaston!”
He sat forward in the chair, holding her stare. “Au contraire, I returned directly toVeniseat the first possible moment. I kept my promise to you…” He let the sentence dangle, his implied meaning clear.
Sophie abruptly sat forward. “When? Why did you not come see me, talk to me?”
It took every ounce of self-control for Gaston to keep his tone dispassionate. “I could not. You had given yourself to another. What would be the point in it?” He glimpsed doubt in her eyes. Did she think he would lie about such a thing? Anger pricked at him, and his nonchalance slipped away. “Over three years, I dreamed of you. My memories of our one night together sustaining me. How could you do it, Sophie? How?” He’d not meant to expose his pain, had not intended to show her she’d had the power to hurt him.
He watched the play of emotion on her face before she, too, schooled it into indifference and sat back against the sofa. “Non,” she said. “I do not accept the guilt you are handing me. You are the one who left me to believe you were dead.”
“You had a husband to comfort you,” he said, grabbing his glass and swallowing the contents whole, the burning of his throat more acrid than warming. “You’d no need of me.”
