She swallowed. “Yes.”
“If the music is not your liking, Basing, I suggest you visit the card table,” Hartfell said, still in that calm, cold voice. “I see Lady Basing has set up a game. Perhaps Keasdon here will partner you.”
Prompted, Freddy blushed and stammered his willingness to play.
Hartfell waited while the two men made their way to the opposite side of the room. He bowed curtly to Aimée, his face impassive. “I will leave you to your amusements, Miss Blanchard.”
Dismay washed through her. He could not believe she encouraged Howard’s improper attentions.
But of course he could, she thought as he walked away. He had just heard her excuse Howard and then agree to dance with him. What else could he think?
Howard probably thought the same.
She felt faintly ill. And unreasonably disappointed. Why she cared for Hartfell’s good opinion she did not know.
Except for that moment when their eyes first met and she had felt a quiver of . . . What? Recognition? Yearning?
Foolishness.
She watched him cross to Julia’s side, his broad, black back, his gleaming golden hair, and her vision blurred suddenly.
She took a deep breath. She would not indulge in regret or self-pity.
It was stupid, stupid, to sigh and dream over a man simply because he had sought an introduction and shown her a little courtesy. Women like her—dependent females at the mercy of their relations—had little chance of attracting a suitor or changing their situations.
Besides . . . Her gaze skittered to Howard, taking his seat at the card table. Hartfell’s politeness, innocent as it was, had had the unwelcome result of provoking Howard. Her cousin was like a dog snarling over a bone, anxious lest it be snatched away.
She sighed. She had no desire to be slavered over. Or mauled. Better for her, safer for her, to avoid them both.
Chapter Four
Lucien stared out the long French windows at the snow covered lawn and frozen pond. The winter clouds were cold and gray as steel, the ground as hard as iron.
In his mind he saw her eyes, blue as the October sky, heard her voice, warm and fierce as sunlight. You tear me away from everything I know. You will rip me apart.
His hands clenched behind his back. He knew who she was now. Amy Blanchard. Lady Aimée, daughter of the Comte de Brissac.
What he didn’t know was what the devil he should do about her.
His head pounded. Maybe nothing.
He was no angel, after all. His responsibility for her had ended eight years ago when he delivered her from prison and the guillotine. Damn it all, he’d saved her life.
You are killing me.
His jaw set. Bollocks.
A burst of laughter recalled his attention to the room behind him, where pretty Julia Basing was holding court by the fire.
He felt no desire to join them. For the past several days, he had been confined to the house and his role as Julia’s suitor. The hard frost, followed by an inch or two of snow, had discouraged even the most avid sportsmen from going out. There had been one foray to the local taproom to take tea, where the very young ladies in his party had declared the private dining room dirty, the cakes dry, and the whole trip scarcely worth the trouble. In desperation yesterday, Lucien had proposed an expedition to the tiny Norman church in the village to admire the twelfth-century frieze. A shivering Julia Basing had refused even to descend from the carriage, demanding to be taken home.
Aimée Blanchard had not joined either outing.
“Is Miss Blanchard indisposed?” Lucien had asked Julia that morning.
Julia had blinked at him, obviously bewildered by his interest in her cousin. “Amy? No, why?”
“I did not see her at breakfast.”