the nervous trembling of her fingers against his lips was certainly real.
So was the wariness in her eyes.
When she slowly pulled her hand from his grasp, he resisted the urge to snatch it back. Instead, he leaned against the leather squabs and casually angled his long legs across the small compartment, hoping he looked relaxed even though his heart drummed against his ribs.
“The driver has orders to ignore you,” he explained.
“Why would he do that?” Her voice emerged surprisingly husky, and thankfully more curious than angry.
“Because I paid him to.”
“You…” She blinked. “Why would you do that?”
“Because we need to talk,” he explained. “And I couldn’t be certain after last night that you wouldn’t try to run away.” Again.
The undulation in her throat from her nervous swallow proved him right. She would have done just that. “We have nothing to talk about.”
“A great deal.” He leveled his gaze on her as the carriage rocked around them, swaying them in their seats. “Starting with why you were at Le Château Noir this morning.”
Her fingers tightened around the reticule she held in her lap as she defensively tossed back, “Why were you?”
“I’m a former soldier turned peer. Visiting brothels is practically a requirement.” He couldn’t tell her the truth. That he’d followed her there. Not until he’d learned how much she knew about what her brother had been doing. But instead of drawing a smile, that teasing comment surprisingly darkened her expression. So he continued cautiously, “What I’d like to know is why would a respectable lady and the sister of an MP?”
“Don’t confuse the two,” she countered dryly. “They’re not necessarily inclusive.”
His lips curled in amusement. The sharp woman who’d verbally fenced with him last night had returned. “Why were either of them at Lord Torrington’s masquerade, then?”
“The dancing,” she quipped, dodging his question. “I’d heard the waltzing there would be unparalleled.”
“It was. Damned shame that your brother got in the way.”
Her eyes locked with his. “We were finished.”
Her quiet words slapped him. She didn’t mean the waltz. He said quietly, “Not due to my choosing.”
“Wasn’t it?”
He knew better than to answer. She was picking a fight, the way she used to as a girl to worm her way out of uncomfortable situations, most likely in hopes that he’d grow angry, stop the carriage, and leave.
But he wouldn’t be so easily deterred. “Why were you at the masquerade?” Unbidden jealousy made him ask, “What would you want with a man like Varnham?”
“What would you want with a woman like Madame Noir?”
He sat up. Her question came out of nowhere, taking him completely by surprise. “Nothing, I assure you.”
“She showed me the emerald bracelet you gave her.” Controlled iciness dripped from her voice. “How thoughtful of you to give her a bauble that matches her eyes.”
He went completely still, his gaze locked with hers across the compartment. This wasn’t simply another attempt to stir up a fight. “I did not give that woman any jewelry.”
“She seems to think you did.”
“I did not give that woman a bracelet, emerald or otherwise,” he said as firmly but calmly as possible. “The only woman I’ve ever given jewelry to…” Damnation. His eyes lowered to the gold locket at her throat.
Her hand rose to grasp the locket, and her voice trembled with uncertainty as she asked, “Then why would she say so?”
He grimaced. “Knowing Madame, just to see if she could draw a reaction from you. Did you give her one?”
“No.” She stared at him intently for a long moment, as if trying to reconcile the lad she knew with the man sitting before her. Finally, she whispered, “I believe you about the bracelet.”
“Well then,” he drawled. “Good to know you’ll take the word of a brigadier over a brothel owner.”
A faint but uneasy smile pulled at her lips, and she released the locket, her hand dropping away. “Barely.”
He chuckled. She was just as sassy as he remembered. And in more trouble than she knew.
His amusement faded, and he leaned forward, hands folded between his knees. “Tell me—why were you at Le Château Noir this morning?”
She hesitated, her doubt over trusting him visible on her face. But then she admitted, “I was returning a dress I’d borrowed. Why were you there?” She swept an assessing gaze over him, hiding behind her sardonic teasing to keep from having to hold a meaningful conversation. And to keep from having to answer his questions. “I doubt she has anything in your style.”
He couldn’t resist volleying back, “It’s not the