“Very well, my curious
Gypsy, if I satisfying you on this last question, do you vow
that we can then allow this topic to rest?”
She nodded, tucked her feet underneath her
and snuggled into the pillows of the couch as if expecting a rare
treat.
“Very well, then. But no interruptions with
more questions, mind. And there is little enough to tell. My
acquaintance with my mother lasted a day. And my father quite
wisely quit this earth three days before my arrival. Nothing
terribly dramatic, I assure you. He broke his neck on the hunt
field, and my mother went into a decline. At least that was how my
aunts put it. My uncles told me rather more graphically when I was
six that she bled to death from the birthing.”
“What! Do you mean they allowed you to think
you caused her death?”
His mouth twisted. “I doubt that was their
intent. At the time, I had cut myself on my father’s sword and they
feared I might be a bleeder as well.” He held up his left hand to
show the white line of a scar that crossed his palm. “I am happy to
say, I am not. As to my parent’s death...well, accidents happen and
people die. That is simply the way of the world. And the world and
I long ago came to terms with each other.”
Shocked, Glynis stared at him. The wine had
dulled her mind, but it did nothing to ease the tightness that now
gathered around her heart. The way of the world, he called it, as
if things blindly happened. Well, it was not the way of her world.
Yes, fate could be cruel. But it was not mindless. A pattern lay in
the cloth of all events. Her mother had taught her that, and she
clung to that belief fiercely.
But this one, ah, he saw only an indifferent
world.
Scowling at him, she tried to think him cold
for how he spoke, with that mocking distance in his voice. But she
kept thinking instead that something else lay behind this cold wall
he used to keep himself so removed from others.
She knew what it was to lose a parent. But
she had vague memories of her father’s arms about her, the smell of
his cologne, spicy and warm, of his voice, rough and deep. And she
had her mother’s stories.
Ah, was this earl a man who stole hearts
because he feared giving his own? And why did he so fear the
healing warmth of love? Because it had been taken too often from
him? Or never given perhaps?
“Why are you not married?” she demanded
suddenly.
For a moment, he simply stared at her. He
surprised her by giving a laugh. A real laugh, one that reached his
eyes, and transformed his face.
Oh, no, don’t laugh, gaujo—you are
dangerous enough when you smile , she thought, struggling to
resist that wicked charm.
Sobering, he smiled down at her. “Have you,
my Gypsy, never heard that it is impolite to badger with so many
inopportune questions?”
She shrugged. “Well, you know about me
already—that I am the daughter of a nobleman and a Gypsy. I could
tell you that I dance like my mother, and that she has the gift of
second sight—ah, but you see! You raise that eyebrow at me, and
give me that look, which tells me you think I am only making up
another swato . So, what am I to talk about, if not you?
Would you rather that I ask you when will you get me into Lord
Nevin’s house?”
“Patience, my dear. We must entice his
interest in you, and not allow him to see your interest in him. But
we will start tomorrow—when we are both better rested.”
She almost told him that now he sounded like
her mother, but there was wisdom in his advice. However, time
favored him. Time to charm her. Time to weaken her with soft beds,
and delicious food, and hot baths.
Well, she would not weaken. She would take
what he offered, enjoy it, and leave him with his empty house and
his empty heart.
Rising, she stood in front of him. “Until
tomorrow then.”
He smiled at her and took her hand, and she
braced herself for his kiss. He stood very close to her, his touch
warm on her skin, his thumb brushing her palm in a way that set her
blood
Gypsy, if I satisfying you on this last question, do you vow
that we can then allow this topic to rest?”
She nodded, tucked her feet underneath her
and snuggled into the pillows of the couch as if expecting a rare
treat.
“Very well, then. But no interruptions with
more questions, mind. And there is little enough to tell. My
acquaintance with my mother lasted a day. And my father quite
wisely quit this earth three days before my arrival. Nothing
terribly dramatic, I assure you. He broke his neck on the hunt
field, and my mother went into a decline. At least that was how my
aunts put it. My uncles told me rather more graphically when I was
six that she bled to death from the birthing.”
“What! Do you mean they allowed you to think
you caused her death?”
His mouth twisted. “I doubt that was their
intent. At the time, I had cut myself on my father’s sword and they
feared I might be a bleeder as well.” He held up his left hand to
show the white line of a scar that crossed his palm. “I am happy to
say, I am not. As to my parent’s death...well, accidents happen and
people die. That is simply the way of the world. And the world and
I long ago came to terms with each other.”
Shocked, Glynis stared at him. The wine had
dulled her mind, but it did nothing to ease the tightness that now
gathered around her heart. The way of the world, he called it, as
if things blindly happened. Well, it was not the way of her world.
Yes, fate could be cruel. But it was not mindless. A pattern lay in
the cloth of all events. Her mother had taught her that, and she
clung to that belief fiercely.
But this one, ah, he saw only an indifferent
world.
Scowling at him, she tried to think him cold
for how he spoke, with that mocking distance in his voice. But she
kept thinking instead that something else lay behind this cold wall
he used to keep himself so removed from others.
She knew what it was to lose a parent. But
she had vague memories of her father’s arms about her, the smell of
his cologne, spicy and warm, of his voice, rough and deep. And she
had her mother’s stories.
Ah, was this earl a man who stole hearts
because he feared giving his own? And why did he so fear the
healing warmth of love? Because it had been taken too often from
him? Or never given perhaps?
“Why are you not married?” she demanded
suddenly.
For a moment, he simply stared at her. He
surprised her by giving a laugh. A real laugh, one that reached his
eyes, and transformed his face.
Oh, no, don’t laugh, gaujo—you are
dangerous enough when you smile , she thought, struggling to
resist that wicked charm.
Sobering, he smiled down at her. “Have you,
my Gypsy, never heard that it is impolite to badger with so many
inopportune questions?”
She shrugged. “Well, you know about me
already—that I am the daughter of a nobleman and a Gypsy. I could
tell you that I dance like my mother, and that she has the gift of
second sight—ah, but you see! You raise that eyebrow at me, and
give me that look, which tells me you think I am only making up
another swato . So, what am I to talk about, if not you?
Would you rather that I ask you when will you get me into Lord
Nevin’s house?”
“Patience, my dear. We must entice his
interest in you, and not allow him to see your interest in him. But
we will start tomorrow—when we are both better rested.”
She almost told him that now he sounded like
her mother, but there was wisdom in his advice. However, time
favored him. Time to charm her. Time to weaken her with soft beds,
and delicious food, and hot baths.
Well, she would not weaken. She would take
what he offered, enjoy it, and leave him with his empty house and
his empty heart.
Rising, she stood in front of him. “Until
tomorrow then.”
He smiled at her and took her hand, and she
braced herself for his kiss. He stood very close to her, his touch
warm on her skin, his thumb brushing her palm in a way that set her
blood
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