Finally, the curtain came down and the lights flared. Meg drew in a huge breath, slowly exhaled. And realized she felt refreshed, alive. Restored.
She hadn’t thought about the blasted royal wedding for hours.
Turning to Gaston, she smiled, openly letting her delight show. “Thank you. That was wonderful—it was everything I hoped the performance would be.”
He returned her smile, his eyes warm. “Bon.” He held up her cloak. “Come—our carriage should be waiting. Let us leave before anyone else decides they really must interrogate me over Louis’s intentions.”
She laughed, took his arm and let him lead her to the door.
June 17, 1820, midnight
Bartholomew’s Hotel, London
When the carriage drew up before the ornate front door of Bartholomew’s Hotel, Meg turned her head and arched a brow at Gaston, seated opposite. The carriage was one of her father’s; she hadn’t bothered listening to the orders Gaston had given the coachman.
His expression relaxed, but his lips and, as far as she could tell, his eyes unsmiling, he reached for the door latch, opened the door, and stepped down to the pavement.
Waving back the doorman, he turned and held out his hand to her. “If you would humor me, mignonne, there is a matter I believe we should discuss.”
Every suspicion and premonition that had slid through her mind in recent days came rushing to the fore. She stared at him.
His hand remained steady, his gaze locked with hers. “I believe we would both prefer to discuss the matter in private.”
She knew precisely what he—impossible man—wished to discuss, but wasn’t at all sure she was ready to discuss that particular topic with him, and certainly not alone with him in a hotel.
But he didn’t shift, didn’t move, simply waited. He was—as she’d foreseen—going to make her choose.
One dark brow faintly arched. “The carriage, of course, will wait.”
So what had she to fear? The light from the gas lamps fell over him, illuminating the challenge, clear and bright, that gleamed in his dark eyes.
He was manipulating her, yet . . . this moment, this discussion, she’d known it would come.
She just hadn’t expected him to make such a move before the wedding.
Lifting her chin, she reached out and grasped his hand. “Very well.” She allowed him to help her from the carriage, then, head high, walked by his side, her hand on his arm, into the fashionable hotel.
He took her upstairs to the privacy and quiet of the sitting room of a large suite. Other than with her brothers, she’d never been alone with a man in such a setting, but she was twenty-eight, and had needed no chaperon to visit the theater with him.
She allowed him to remove her cloak, then walked forward to place her reticule on the low table before the sofa, reflecting that it was just as well there was no one else present to witness what came next.
Somewhat to her surprise, he didn’t light a lamp. Instead, after studying her for an instant, he prowled to the window. Pushing aside the flimsy drapes, he looked out.
When he didn’t say anything, didn’t turn back to her, drawn, she crossed the room to his side.
As she joined him before the window, he said, “This window looks south. Far away, beyond London, beyond Paris, far over the horizon lies Perigord. And deep in that province lie my estates, waiting for me to return.”
He shifted his gaze to her face. She felt it, but didn’t yet meet it.
“I am already on borrowed time. I must leave tomorrow.”
She nodded. “After the wedding.”
“No—before.”
That had her turning her head, looking into his face, searching his eyes.
“I didn’t come to London for the wedding, Meg. I came for you.”
A plethora of minor observations suddenly fell into place, but with her heart already thumping, already lost in his dark gaze, she wasted no time on them. “Why?”
“Because I need you.”
“You need a wife.”
“No—I need you. I have never wanted any other woman as mine, only you.” He paused, then went on, “But when I first saw you, you were Beaumont’s. He wanted you, and you wanted him.” He held her gaze steadily. “I knew even then, but”—he shrugged fatalistically—“there was nothing I could do. I was a mere chevalier in an exiled prince’s train. I had no title, little wealth, no estates. I had nothing to offer you, and no right to interfere.
“But Beaumont is long dead, yet you are still here.” He tipped his head. “Why is that?”
He had her there; any answer she gave would only undermine her position. She struggled to keep her lips from curving in appreciation of his tactics.