Page 39 of Love Unraveled
Sophia was surprised by his astute observation. She had not thought he’d noticed, and had been unsure about whether he’d care even if he had. “Either,” she said, watching his face, trying to read his expression in the dim carriage.
“The one on the stage wasextraordinaire. The one in the box? Unexpectedly disappointing. More pedantic and predictable.” He looked back out the window.
Sophia’s temper sparked. “You are calling me unimaginative? Or dull?”
“No, Sophie,” he said without breaking his stare out the window. “You are neither of those things. But your game was. Or is.” He locked his gaze with hers in the reflection. “Are you done toying with the duke? Or is it me you toy with?”
He was jealous. It was a good sign, was it not? For if he cared not at all, there would be no bitterness in his voice, no tension between them. Her fire went out.
“I am not toying with you, Gaston. I am upholding my side of our bargain. It was what you asked of me, no?” She did not say she was trying to figure out his motivation, that she was afraid to release her heart to him only to find it crushed beneath his plans. “Why did you not come to me sooner, Gaston?”
He studied her for a moment before speaking. “I did not know you were here, until recently.”
She waited for him to say more, to explain how he could be in England and yet not have surfaced until now. How he could not have known about her presence until now. But he said nothing further.
“And how did you make the grand discovery?” she asked, once again irritated at having to pull each item of information from him as though extracting horsehairs from her riding dress.
“It was, as I’ve told you, entirely by accident. I saw you pass in a carriage with your friends. It was a quick glimpse, but I’d know you anywhere. I followed the carriage to the Thornwoods’ town house, then on to your own house.”
“You saw me in London yet did not approach me until I was on my estate?” While it was possible it had been a serendipitous coincidence, the delay to connect with her made no sense to Sophia.
“Oui,” Gaston said, “it is the truth. You are frowning. You still do not believe me.”
“Why wait?”
“You were a busy woman, with many suitors. Including the duke. You attended many events with him.”
“And with others.” She sighed. It was her own fault he was focused on the duke.
“And with others,” he repeated. “I had been rejected once. I did not wish to be so again.”
“I have never refused you.”
He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“You cannot call my marriage a rejection of you, Gaston. I thought you were dead.” Emotions rolled through her, too many to name, too many to continue this conversation. “Enough of this dance. It leads us nowhere. What is done is done. The question is, Where to now?”
“Your townhome,” Gaston said smoothly, being deliberately obtuse. “And tomorrow, the theater.”
The carriage came to a halt, rocking as Raimondo hopped off. He opened the door, and Gaston slid out quickly, reaching back in and offering his hand. She took it, and stepped out, the air cool on her flushed face.
“I’m going to return to my rooms,” Gaston said, leaning in and whisking a kiss across each of her cheeks. “Good night.”
Sophia watched as he walked away without so much as a glance back. She was at sea, tossed around by a tumult of memories and visceral reactions, and he remained passively ashore, calmly detached. Every moment with Gaston was one step forward and two steps backward. She did not know if they were destined to be together or destined to say goodbye. But she knew she had to know one way or the other.
She watched him turn the corner. Regardless of his half-truths, unlike him, she would not walk away now.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Words are easy, like the wind;
Faithful friends are hard to find.
—Shakespeare, “The Passionate Pilgrim”
“Signor Armand isdownstairs,” Cara said, entering Sophia’s room with a freshly ironed gown over her arm.
“Durand,” Sophia corrected, not surprised Cara knew his real name. There were few secrets among her three loyal servants, and Raimondo and Stefano certainly knew Gaston was an Armand. Although Gaston’s use of Durand remained puzzling and only fed her suspicions about his motive, he was right. It did work in her favor. No one could connect a Monsieur Durand to her, and therefore her years in France remained unknown.
