Heiress in Red Silk, Hunter, Madeline [good beach reads TXT] 📗

He opened his eyes and looked down at her. “You are beautiful and desirable and far more than halfway clever, Rosamund. You are too good for him and are well rid of him.”

She looked up at him. “Do you promise not to call him out?”

“If you insist.” He pressed a kiss on her brow, in reassurance.

Surprise flexed over her expression. He wondered if she had returned to this hotel thinking herself unworthy of any man. If so, damn the blackguard.

He kissed her again, on the cheek, then the lips. He pulled her closer and held her head so the kiss could linger a short while.

Then, being such a good sort—a gentleman by Zeus—he stood and walked back to the terrace windows.

* * *

Rosamund spent the rest of the evening alone in her chambers. She had a meal sent up and told the maid to leave her alone.

All kinds of thoughts ran through her mind. Perhaps she should see if Mr. Sanders could find a way out of her lease. She didn’t need such a house now. She could probably tell those tutors she would not have lessons too. The whole plan had been about Charles, and now all of it seemed very foolish to her.

As night fell, she turned her mind to her shops and found solace in making plans for them. Even so, the shock of her meeting with Charles weighed on her. She no longer mourned, but she continued to feel adrift and ridiculous and—soiled. It reminded her of the night Philip Radnor had assaulted her, only today, Charles had done it with his words and manner.

That she had loved him, and had carried that love to the meeting, made it far worse than Philip.

She prepared for bed, then lay there unable to sleep. She realized that Charles had taken more than a girlish dream from her today. A big corner of her soul felt empty. She was not sure that she knew herself anymore.

She wished she had never looked for Charles. Never sought him out. She could have continued as she was, believing what she chose. She could have pretended the inheritance might make her a lady and enjoyed Paris for the rest of this visit. She might have remained excited about all the new changes she was making in her life.

A sound came in the terrace window. She had left hers open to air out the sitting room. Now, she heard the mechanism on another window as a neighboring patron shut and locked his.

That would be Kevin, she guessed. He had been very kind. He had wasted a whole day on her, waiting for her return, then comforting her. It was not the sort of thing one expected of him. He always seemed so indifferent to social niceties. Even last night, during the dinner with Monsieur Forestier, while no more than pleasantries were exchanged, she could tell that Kevin grew impatient for more important conversation.

This afternoon, however, he had known just what to say. You are beautiful and desirable and far more than halfway clever. You are too good for him.

She believed he meant it because she doubted he ever bothered to lie that way. At least he meant it when he said it. She had clung to that good opinion of her, to hold herself steady.

Now, lying in her bed, she did so again. She allowed herself to think about her experiences in this city. Last night’s dinner, with Monsieur Forestier’s flattery. Her discovery of those unusual notions for her shops. Kisses and pleasure on a dark bridge while streetlamps reflected from the ripples of the river below.

She had experienced such joy in those embraces. Pleasure too, but she mostly remembered a lightness of spirit and a glory in being herself. Walking away had not been easy, but to have continued would have betrayed Charles, or so she had believed.

She did not debate with herself long. She rose and donned an undressing gown. She unlatched the door to her chambers, slipped out, and knocked on another one nearby.

* * *

No more crying or moaning came through the walls, so Kevin decided to get some sleep. He would have a conversation with Rosamund about Forestier in the morning. Matters could not be delayed any longer.

He had spent hours today thinking about the critical stage of the enterprise. Little else had entered his awareness, other than Rosamund’s long absence. Until he heard the glass breaking. Now, free to again mull over the problem, he found he had little interest in it.

His ears strained to hear what was happening in her suite. He hoped he had not left too soon. She seemed more herself, and after that kiss—He really did have to leave then, before he behaved like the worst scoundrel.

He was down to his shirt and trousers when he heard a light knock on his door. The man servant assigned to him had probably noticed the light in this chamber. He strode over to remind the fellow that he had said he would not need anything until morning.

No man stood there. It was Rosamund. She had changed into an undressing gown. Her hair tumbled around her head and shoulders, its long, loose curls hanging low over the frills cascading below her neck. His mouth dried at the sight of her in dishabille like this.

“You said you would open your door if I came to it,” she said.

He stood aside so she could enter. She floated past him, and the light from his lamp made her hair glisten with gold.

She strolled aimlessly around the chamber, her long, slender fingers glossing over the furnishings. He could have watched her for hours, if this was what she wanted to do. Eventually he acknowledged that it probably wasn’t.

“Are you too sad to sleep? Do you need some distraction?” He stayed by the door, leaning against it because he did not trust himself to get too close.

She shook her head. “I suppose I will be