aware of nothing beyond his skin on hers as he wrenched her hands from him. ‘Leave it. I’ll do it.’
‘How can you?’ she cried, disgusted at her own inadequacy, her own emotional stupidity. ‘I can do it—please, just let me try again…’
And then his hands were on her face, holding it, his thumbs brushing her cheeks as the tears soaked into the bandage on his fingers before he pulled away sharply and thrust his hands through his dark, dishevelled hair. He half turned from her, but she heard his exasperated sigh and felt herself die inside a little more. ‘You’re crying. Why?’
‘Nothing. I’m being stupid. Take no notice…’ She gave a sudden, bitter laugh. ‘Not that you would anyway…’
He whipped back to face her. His eyes blazed with sudden searing, unidentifiable passion, but his voice was terrifyingly calm.
‘What did Arabella say, exactly?’
Rachel felt her hands fly to her mouth. ‘She…she told me not to tell you.’
Orlando went very still. Standing there with his head thrown back, the silk tie hanging loosely around his neck, he looked like a tortured Adonis, and she felt the breath being squeezed from her lungs by the sheer charisma of his presence as she waited for him to speak.
‘I can guess.’ He gave her a heart breaking twisted smile, and his tone softened so that the steel edge to it was almost imperceptible. Which only made it more dangerous. ‘Discretion was never really Arabella’s strong point.’
Rachel was like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a fast-approaching car. His face was completely expressionless, utterly remote, but the emotion that flared in his luminous eyes was terrifying.
‘I think it’s best that I…know…’ She was backing away from him, unable to bear his nearness and his immeasurable distance a moment longer. ‘I was in danger…in very great danger—’ her voice broke into a dry sob ‘—of falling in love with you, you see.’
She stumbled slightly on the hem of her trailing dress, and then, yanking it up over her knees, turned and fled from the room.
CHAPTER EIGHT
S TANDING in the hallway beneath the portrait of his great grandfather, Orlando drained one glass of champagne and picked up another.
The house was filling up. The level of noise rose as more parties of people arrived, greeting each other loudly, their confident voices ringing through Easton’s vast rooms and all but drowning out the sound of Lucinda’s string quartet. The ball showed every sign of being a huge success, and the weather, far from deterring people from coming, seemed to have forged a sort of Dunkirk spirit amongst the guests. In their midst, Orlando felt more isolated than ever.
It wasn’t his damaged sight that set him apart from everyone else, though. It was his relentless, churning rage.
At Arabella. She’d probably told half of London that Orlando the heroic was now Orlando the pitiful. But he’d been a fool to expect anything else; she’d always been as hard as diamonds. It was what had first attracted him to her.
No. It was Rachel who had hurt him the most.
‘I think it’s best that I know—I was in danger of falling in love with you…’
Was.
Not now. Not now she’d found out the truth about him.
There was a blast of arctic air as another group came in, pausing to hand over tickets and coats to the door staff, cheerfully exchanging anecdotes about their difficult journeys as they helped themselves to champagne from the tray. Orlando knew that he should be there, playing the host, but even thinking about the effort required made him feel weary. Turning on his heel, he walked in the other direction—towards the inner hall, away from the throng of people.
The house looked stunning. Even through the acrid fog of his anger and the curse of his reduced sight, he could feel that Easton been brought to life. He had been so used to its shadows and darkness that he had quite simply forgotten that it could be so lovely. He ought to
‘How can you?’ she cried, disgusted at her own inadequacy, her own emotional stupidity. ‘I can do it—please, just let me try again…’
And then his hands were on her face, holding it, his thumbs brushing her cheeks as the tears soaked into the bandage on his fingers before he pulled away sharply and thrust his hands through his dark, dishevelled hair. He half turned from her, but she heard his exasperated sigh and felt herself die inside a little more. ‘You’re crying. Why?’
‘Nothing. I’m being stupid. Take no notice…’ She gave a sudden, bitter laugh. ‘Not that you would anyway…’
He whipped back to face her. His eyes blazed with sudden searing, unidentifiable passion, but his voice was terrifyingly calm.
‘What did Arabella say, exactly?’
Rachel felt her hands fly to her mouth. ‘She…she told me not to tell you.’
Orlando went very still. Standing there with his head thrown back, the silk tie hanging loosely around his neck, he looked like a tortured Adonis, and she felt the breath being squeezed from her lungs by the sheer charisma of his presence as she waited for him to speak.
‘I can guess.’ He gave her a heart breaking twisted smile, and his tone softened so that the steel edge to it was almost imperceptible. Which only made it more dangerous. ‘Discretion was never really Arabella’s strong point.’
Rachel was like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a fast-approaching car. His face was completely expressionless, utterly remote, but the emotion that flared in his luminous eyes was terrifying.
‘I think it’s best that I…know…’ She was backing away from him, unable to bear his nearness and his immeasurable distance a moment longer. ‘I was in danger…in very great danger—’ her voice broke into a dry sob ‘—of falling in love with you, you see.’
She stumbled slightly on the hem of her trailing dress, and then, yanking it up over her knees, turned and fled from the room.
CHAPTER EIGHT
S TANDING in the hallway beneath the portrait of his great grandfather, Orlando drained one glass of champagne and picked up another.
The house was filling up. The level of noise rose as more parties of people arrived, greeting each other loudly, their confident voices ringing through Easton’s vast rooms and all but drowning out the sound of Lucinda’s string quartet. The ball showed every sign of being a huge success, and the weather, far from deterring people from coming, seemed to have forged a sort of Dunkirk spirit amongst the guests. In their midst, Orlando felt more isolated than ever.
It wasn’t his damaged sight that set him apart from everyone else, though. It was his relentless, churning rage.
At Arabella. She’d probably told half of London that Orlando the heroic was now Orlando the pitiful. But he’d been a fool to expect anything else; she’d always been as hard as diamonds. It was what had first attracted him to her.
No. It was Rachel who had hurt him the most.
‘I think it’s best that I know—I was in danger of falling in love with you…’
Was.
Not now. Not now she’d found out the truth about him.
There was a blast of arctic air as another group came in, pausing to hand over tickets and coats to the door staff, cheerfully exchanging anecdotes about their difficult journeys as they helped themselves to champagne from the tray. Orlando knew that he should be there, playing the host, but even thinking about the effort required made him feel weary. Turning on his heel, he walked in the other direction—towards the inner hall, away from the throng of people.
The house looked stunning. Even through the acrid fog of his anger and the curse of his reduced sight, he could feel that Easton been brought to life. He had been so used to its shadows and darkness that he had quite simply forgotten that it could be so lovely. He ought to
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