Afterward, his lips turned into her neck and he spoke very quietly. “Not purgatory after all,” he said. “Not with you here. Idiotic of me to think otherwise, even for a moment.”
And deep inside her, that small, cold kernel of doubt began to melt. Against his forehead, she smiled.
They returned to the ballroom separately, Gwen going first. Her mission, so they had agreed, was to find the twins and pull rank: as the bride-to-be, she was certainly entitled to demand an early night’s sleep.
She paused on the edge of the floor, mask now atop her head in a strategic decision—to disguise, or account for, the disorder of her hair. The crush seemed to have grown even thicker, and the air now held the distinct tang of sweat and alcohol. The Cornelyses must be overjoyed; no host could declare his party a success until the air began to grow foul.
“So the bastard finally saw it through.”
So absorbed was she in scouring the crowd that the familiar voice barely registered on her at first.
And then she stiffened and glanced sidelong.
Trent stood beside her. He wore a mask, but she could not mistake him. He had a small birthmark at the corner of his mouth, very distinctive, the shape of the African continent.
The last time they had spoken, she had been engaged to him, still. After the note he’d sent breaking it off, she had not wished to hear his voice again, much less give him the honor of hearing hers.
She looked behind her for Alex, but if he had come back already, he had entered through the far doors. He could not be far off, though; they were meant to find each other again as soon as possible. He had suggested this. He did not wish to be parted from her: that was the only conclusion she could draw from his suggestion.
She smiled. She would pretend as though she hadn’t heard Trent’s remark, whatever on earth he’d meant by it.
But he had the bad taste to speak again. “I would pay good money to be with Pennington when he hears this news,” he said.
Now no doubt remained that he was speaking to her. She bit her lip very hard.
He laughed suddenly. “Why, you have no idea, do you?” he asked. “You should see your face right now. What did you think—that I broke it off of my own free will?”
She would not give him the satisfaction. She would not.
“You always were a bit thick.” Incredulity flooded his voice. “But affection aside, you knew how badly I needed your money. I can’t believe you never wondered.”
She whirled on him. “Sir, I do not know why you are addressing me, but you will cease to do so at once.”
His brows lifted high, clearing the edge of his black domino. “Of course. Do accept my felicitations on your marriage, madam.” Sweeping her a low bow, he turned on his heel, checkered cape swirling, and walked off.
She stared after him.
He was lying, of course.
But to what end?
A hand touched her arm. She gasped and whirled. Only Alex. Alex. He was smiling at her, but a frown quickly overshadowed the smile. “What is it?” he asked, glancing past her, searching the crowd. In vain, of course. Everybody was masked. Not everyone knew a man well enough to pick him out by a small birthmark. Perhaps only fiancées and wives could do so. Those who had laid a claim, a personal claim, of their own volition, and had cause to learn such small things.
Three million pounds. Alex’s hair was rumpled—from her fingers, as only she knew; from her kisses, from the moans she had breathed into his hair just now.
She had wondered—had raged—had asked herself again and again what could have driven a bankrupt man away from three million pounds. Had asked herself what was wrong with her.
Nothing. That had been her answer, in the end.
Everything about you is right.
“What is it?” He searched her eyes, his own so light, such a light and clear blue, that one could almost convince oneself they were transparent, truly the windows into his brain and heart and soul. His hand was gripping her arm; she did not know when he had taken hold of her. “Gwen, what is it?”
She could not believe this of him. She cleared her throat. She meant to speak strongly, to indicate with her tone how absurd she found Trent’s claim.
Instead, what came out was a whisper. “Was it you?”
At the top of the room, the orchestra was sawing into some wild melody, a reel, a schottische, something that made the crowd squeal, sparking a sudden rush into the dance, crushing bystanders back toward the walls, elbows and heels jostling and knocking her like so much flotsam into Alex’s chest. She took a step back, stamping on someone’s hem, eliciting a squeal that she ignored.
He did not answer her. He was staring at her with a look she could not decipher. He was so good at impassivity when it suited him.