Lady Lilias and the Devil in Plaid - Julie Johnstone Page 0,22

to you when I came to visit,” he said.

“Why?” Her heart pounded so hard that her chest hurt.

Nash looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Because it served no purpose for you to know I was there.”

“I thought we were friends. Real friends.” She could not bear to say out loud that she had believed they were going to be more. “You said—” She swallowed, wishing she didn’t need to ask the one question that had burned in her mind all these years. But if she didn’t ask it now, she’d never forgive herself for being so weak. One moment of embarrassment could not break her, but if she knew she’d let something special, something wonderful slip between her fingers because of pride… Well, that would drive her mad.

“The night we were alone, you said I made you feel—” Thump. Thump. Thump. She took a deep breath to calm her heart so she could hear him when he answered. Why was she pushing? Why wouldn’t that hope totally die?

He looked startled for a moment, but then his dark lashes lowered to almost fully conceal his eyes. When he looked up again, whatever emotion he might have been feeling was unfathomable to her. She wanted to scream.

“I don’t recall the conversation.” His voice was even. Flat. And yet she could see him clenching and unclenching his teeth by the way his jaw moved.

“You are a liar.” Her mother would have simply expired on the spot if she’d heard Lilias now. Thank heavens no one was around.

He flinched at her accusation but did not deny it. For some reason, that made her glad. At least he acknowledged his fatal flaw. His right hand came up to thread his fingers in his hair, just as he’d done years before. “Lilias, I don’t remember the conversation because whatever I was going to say was not important enough to me to remember. I told you I am not a good person.”

She nodded, feeling as if every emotion she possessed was lodged in her throat. “Yes, yes, you did. I daresay I’m more inclined to believe you than I ever was before.”

“Is there some other way I can help you, Lilias?”

The question was asked as if she were a stranger, as if they had not shared the secrets of what shredded their hearts. “You said that you were not hurting, that you’d have to feel in order to hurt, and you felt nothing. But everyone feels,” she said, arching her eyebrows, demanding him to challenge that.

“Yes,” he said to her shock, “they do. I did contact Owen. I did feel very bad.”

“But you did not feel for me,” she whispered, understanding finally sinking in.

His lips pressed together in a hard line, and then he jerked his hand through his hair. “I felt as a young man would for any pretty girl who showed interest in him. But not as you wanted me to feel. Not… Not—”

She’d never seen him flustered. It was an astonishing sight. He’d never seemed as if he could be made to feel uncomfortable. He’d seemed utterly confident always, but he was uncomfortable now. She would have let him drown in it, but she was going under with him.

“You needn’t say more,” she said. “I understand.” He had not loved her. He’d made her fall in love with him, but all she’d done was inspire a fleeting desire to kiss her. How appalling that she was so foolish that she’d wasted seven years pining over something that had never even existed.

“Your Grace,” she managed to get out with a semblance of, well, grace. “Please tell your sister I came here at the behest of my friend the Duchess of Carrington to invite her to the ball she and the duke are hosting.” It was nonsense, but she had to say something. She had to try to save a tiny shred of her pride. She’d explain to Guinevere, and her friend would understand.

Nash’s gray eyes held skepticism at her claim. Of course they did! It was poppycock, and he likely knew it, but at least he was not going to mention it.

“Shall I get my sister?”

“No. I suddenly don’t feel well.” With that lie—goodness, they were flying out of her mouth today—she gave him the time and location. It wasn’t at all proper to invite him to Guinevere’s ball. The invitation should have been sent by Guinevere, but Guinevere would forgive her. And as she spoke the last word, the butler materialized as if he’d somehow known it