Anne Barbour by A Dangerous Charade

Mediterranean blue to what he rather fancied was the tint of a Renaissance Madonna’s robe. She was gazing at him, directly and earnestly, as she spoke, and he felt somehow suspended, as if flung from a precipice out into a dizzying, amethyst void.
    “What?” He came to himself with a start. Alison had finished her monologue some moments before and sat staring at him in puzzlement.
    “I said, I think your sister has been punished enough. Do you not agree?”
    “Oh ... ah, yes, of course. That is, no, I don’t,” he said in some confusion. “I agree that Meg has apparently learned her lesson, but I cannot let her think I am prepared to simply overlook these adolescent starts of hers.”
    Alison frowned. “Of course, I would not dream of advising you on how to deal with a member of your family, but—
    March grinned. “No more than you would dream of maneuvering my aunt into getting out of the house regularly and eating proper meals, which I know she did not before you came to her.”
    Alison flushed. “Oh! As to that...”
    “As to that,” returned March, a smile still curving his lips as he reached to cover her hand with his, “I feel that I am about to benefit from your advice whether I wish it or not. I have discovered by this time that you are a rather determined sort. ” Alison felt ready to sink. She had apparently won him over. Why, when this ought to put her in transports did she feel like the worst sort of humbug? And why was she so conscious of a running fire in her veins simply because his fingers were gently massaging the back of her hand?
    As though he had read her thoughts, March hastily removed his hand to pick up his fork, and for some moments addressed his breakfast with great concentration. He lifted his eyes once more when Alison cleared her throat and began speaking.
    “I certainly think you ought to speak to her, but she is already aware of the folly of her behavior last night, and anything more you have to add on the subject would only make her resentful. I think rather than punishing her, it would be more to the point if you were to express to her—briefly—your disappointment in her betrayal of your trust and your hope that she will never do so again. She loves you, you know, and the knowledge that she has caused you hurt will be more punishment than anything else you could inflict on her.”
    March sat for a moment in bemused silence, and the ticking of the mantel clock sounded loud in Alison’s ears.
    “You are very wise, my dear,” he said at last, in a voice so low that she could scarcely hear him. “And you are right. Betrayal is the worst crime one human can commit against another—and the most hurtful.” Alison sensed that he was no longer speaking of Meg’s transgressions, and she held her breath.
    To her surprise, March rose abruptly from his chair and said in a brisk tone, “Very well, Madame Consigliori, I will leave you now, and return a few hours hence. I shall speak to Meg then, and you may trust me not to bruise her fragile young sensibilities.”
    The smile he bent on her was warm and carried such an intimacy that Alison felt a tide of color rush into her cheeks. She stammered an incoherent farewell, and sank back in her chair, trembling, when he had left the room.
    Dear Lord, who was she to speak of betrayal? She had won the earl’s trust, but at what cost? She would spend the rest of her life praying that he would never discover her part in the family tragedy from which he had still not recovered. She was forced to admit that the Earl of Marchford had come to mean a great deal to her, although she knew only too well the barriers that separated them. She was the granddaughter of an earl, but his social position, if not his rank, effectively removed him from her, as did his impending betrothal. Not, she was sure, that he looked upon her with anything beyond a friendly acceptance. In other circumstances she would value his friendship as a precious jewel, but she