She glared at him. “What do you mean? What sort of company?”
He tossed back the rest of his beer. “Trent,” he said when he’d swallowed. “Pennington. Every sad toff whom you’ve contemplated purchasing in order to have your title.”
“Purchasing—”
“Do you deny it? I thought we were being honest.”
She could match his sarcasm. “I tell you now, if a title appealed to me, it was merely because I knew that once I had one, no one would dare to speak to me like this.”
He shocked her by laughing. “Nobody ever speaks to you like this, Gwen.” He carefully placed his glass onto the table. “You’ve taken pains to ensure that. These smiles you don’t mean, these compliments you waste on people who don’t deserve them, even this sad little habit of devaluing your own worth—you’re as manipulative as any financier. Only your method is different.”
“And my motive,” she said furiously. “Unlike you, Mr. Ramsey, we do not all appraise a person like some commodity from which we might stand to make a profit. I wanted a family; I wanted a home. But I never tried to undertake a marriage that would benefit only me. Now my aims have changed, but I am no less committed to a fair exchange. If you don’t wish to help me, I will simply find someone who does.”
“The hell you will,” he said grimly.
“I should like to see you stop me.”
He spoke slowly. “Perhaps you haven’t been attending to my reputation as closely as you claim. Otherwise I don’t think you would imagine yourself a match for me.”
The breath hissed through her clenched teeth. “I hardly think myself a match for you. I have a far better regard for myself.”
“Oh? As I said, I could argue that point.”
“I do not want to hear it.”
“I’m certain you don’t.” He glanced beyond her, as if bored with the conversation, and his expression suddenly shifted, his eyes narrowing before his face went absolutely blank.
The transformation was dramatic enough that a thread of curiosity fractured her anger. She turned to follow his regard. He was looking at the girl in the low-cut blue gown. The girl had found a new object for her attentions now—a handsome blond man in a well-cut tail coat. Together with his companions, he was twitting her into giggling, teasing the hem of her skirts with the tip of his gold-knobbed cane.
“Stay here a minute,” Alex said. And then, with a hard look: “I mean it. Do not leave this seat.”
With no further explanation, he rose and walked away.
In disbelief, she twisted to follow his progress. He made directly for the blond man, but his path was impeded by the man’s friends, who stepped forward and exchanged words with him. Meanwhile, the blond took the girl’s arm and strolled around this scene, onward in Gwen’s direction.
Alex took a step after him. The other men interceded. One of them gestured toward the interior of the building. After a visible hesitation and a brief, unreadable glance toward Gwen, Alex pivoted and followed them.
Take her here and abandon her, would he?
She looked wildly around. Alone, in the Moulin Rouge! Amidst all these people!
She jerked up her chin, staring fixedly at the elephant. She would be fine. She did not need Alex’s company, or anybody else’s, for that matter. She could manage very well on her own.
The elephant’s face looked sad. Why had the artist chosen to paint it that way? Its great, dark eyes fixed woefully on some point in the distance, enduring without enthusiasm the antics of stupid boys climbing in and out of its belly. Poor, dumb creature! It looked so resigned. And so lonely.
A terrible wave of pity rose in her. Tears came to her eyes, which seemed beyond stupid; impatiently she pressed her fingertips to her eyelids. What nonsense. It was only a statue. Those eyes were the work of a very talented artist.
Still, something about the scene suddenly felt unbearable. The knot in her throat was growing. She came to her feet, planning to go after Alex, or to leave and hail a cab herself—
—and as she turned, she bumped directly into the blond man whom Alex had tried to approach. The girl clinging to his arm flashed Gwen a hostile look, but the gentleman stopped immediately and sketched a short bow. “Pardon me, mademoiselle,” he said in English. “I didn’t see you there.”
“No, no, it was my fault,” Gwen said. She should have realized he was a fellow countryman when he’d given Alex the cut. He had the ruddy, wholesome good looks that bespoke the playing fields at public schools, and summers spent scrambling across the countryside with howling hounds in tow. “Please accept my apologies, sir.”