Howard’s face was greenish white. “They won’t believe you. It will be your word against mine. The word of a bastard.”
“An acknowledged bastard,” Lucien shot back. “The Earl of Amherst never abandoned his by-blows. My word will be accepted. And once the story of your villainy gets out, your family’s reputation will be ruined.”
He released Howard, dropping him to the floor. “I cannot deal with you here as you deserve. But if I hear you have troubled Miss Blanchard again in any way, you will be lucky to escape with your life. Now take yourself out of my sight.”
Howard stumbled to his feet, blood dripping from his chin, one eye swollen nearly shut. The other shot a hate-filled glance at Aimée. She shivered, pulling her shawl around her.
“I will inform the company that you are indisposed,” Lucien said still in that deadly soft voice. “Doubtless you will wish to remain in your rooms until your return to London.”
Howard lurched from the potting shed without answering. The door banged shut behind him.
Lucien turned to Aimée. “Are you all right?”
Her hands trembled. She made an effort to pull herself together. “Yes. Thank you.”
Lucien’s brow creased. “I cannot prevent him from coming back in the future. But bullies prey on the defenseless. I believe he is sufficiently cowed now to leave you alone.”
“I did not arrange to meet him here,” she said, twisting her hands together. “I did not invite his attentions.”
“I know,” Lucien said.
“How can you know?” she demanded. “I certainly threw myself at you. How can you not think I am ripe for any man’s attentions?”
“I know because I know you,” Lucien said. “You are passionate, not promiscuous. And far too wise, too fine, for the likes of Basing. The man is an ass.”
Startled, she met his gaze. Slowly, her lips curved. “He is an ass,” she admitted.
Lucien made a move toward her, quickly checked. Understanding flooded her. He was afraid to touch her, to remind her of Howard’s attack.
So she went to him. Slipping her arms around his waist, she laid her head on his hard chest.
His arms came around her. His hands moved down her back, stroking, comforting. With a little sigh, she squeezed her eyes shut. He was warm and solid, wrapped around her, and she nestled against his big body, absorbing his comfort. His strength.
“Do not be afraid,” he murmured. “You are safe now.”
A memory tickled, soft, dark, velvet. She opened her eyes in wonder, recognition unfurling inside her like a flower.
“I know you.”
His arms tensed. His breathing stilled.
“I recognize you.” She lifted her head to study his features. Wide, clear brow. Long, straight nose. Firm, unsmiling mouth. His fair hair, long and untamed, an aureole of gold around his angel face.
“You are overwrought,” he said carefully. “Under the circumstances, it is natural for you to imagine . . .”
Her breath exploded, a puff of impatience with him, with herself. “I am upset. I am not stupid. I do not ignore the evidence of my senses.” Or the prompting of her heart. “It was you. In the prison.”
It was you all along.
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“How?”
“Aimée.” Just her name, like the whisper of leaves. His green eyes were full of shadows and secrets like a forest. She could get lost in those eyes.
“Tell me,” she said fiercely.
He sighed. “During the Terror, Amherst organized a secret ring to smuggle victims fleeing France across the channel. When I went to live with him, I . . . joined them.”