Ah, well. It seemed that he lacked a talent for titling, too. Happily, the scene would make a lovely painting no matter what one called it. The sunlight dancing through the window played over her hair, picking out, from amidst the predominant auburn, strands of gold and cinnamon and a shade (he would wager a year’s profits on it) that could only be true crimson. Her hair seemed like a minor miracle, in fact—a national treasure far more inspiring than the Elgin Marbles or groaning, crumbling palaces. He had touched it last night simply for the tactile pleasure.
“Ginger is such an unjust name for the shade,” he said.
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Although you do have bite,” he said. “And you bite quite nicely, too. You take direction well. Did you enjoy that?”
Surprise parted her lips. That rouge the other day had been overkill; her mouth required no aid. It was her second chief beauty, long and full, tinted a natural pink. He enjoyed watching her eat radishes with it. Did she realize that in the bluish tint of gaslight, the color of that vegetable exactly matched her hair? And complemented her lips besides.
“You are flirting with me,” she said slowly.
He considered it. Was he? “Yes,” he said. “I am.” The realization was strangely satisfying. He was flirting with Gwen Maudsley as he might have with any woman who had caught his fancy, whose brother had not been his closest friend, who did not retreat from the world behind a screen of hypocritical and simpering formalities. He’d never had a taste for girlishness.
A strange expression crossed her face. He did not know how to interpret it. That was intriguing, too. Until so recently, he’d fancied her more transparent than glass. “Does it bother you?” he asked. If it did, he supposed these half-formed ambitions would need crushing.
She rolled her eyes. He’d never seen her do that before. “No, it does not bother me,” she said. “But you really must make up your mind, Alex. You are becoming more fickle than a debutante.”
He felt his jaw drop. And then, out of nowhere, he began to laugh. Good God. She was right.
She inspected him narrowly. He wanted to say . . . hell, he didn’t know what, but something in her expression made him laugh harder; he had the fleeting insight that he had probably looked at her in just this way when he’d encountered her on the stairs, the day of her would-be wedding. The idea somehow heightened the hilarity, and now he was breathless for air; this was the work of sleep deprivation, of course, except he’d just slept longer than he had in four years’ time, so that didn’t explain it. He struggled for a breath, trying to reclaim his composure, to say something that would address the sneer creeping over her lovely mouth.
She did not give him a chance. With a disgusted snort, she pulled her skirts tight and swept past him. At the door, she turned back, magnificently straight-spined. “Get dressed, you loon.”
The door slammed behind her.
The drive toward Côte Bleue wound along the edge of the coast. On one side lay the aquamarine sea, glittering fiercely beneath a sky of brilliant blue; on the right, up the rolling hills, stretched groves of olive trees and palms. The climate and vegetation invited a very particular sort of landscape, Gwen thought, and she was not disappointed when the carriage turned down the graveled drive into Mr. Barrington’s property and deposited them at the front steps of Côte Bleue.
The house was two modest stories of mellow pink stone, and vines of purple bougainvillea twined down its face, like strands of a woman’s hair. Its green shutters were thrown open to the warm air and to the view of the terraced garden, tiers of lush vegetation that flowed down toward the cliffs overlooking the sea. Behind the house, on the wild hill above, blossom-spangled orange trees seemed to sag beneath the weight of their ripe, hanging fruit.
Alex exited the carriage first. He’d provided surprisingly agreeable company during the drive, making charming observations about the various towns they had passed, cracking jokes that she’d had to work not to laugh at. Indeed, the temptation to laugh had become its own form of hurt, cutting her just as deeply as his courteous façade. For all she knew, this was some sort of twisted game he’d devised to amuse himself: how many times could he tempt her into throwing herself at him? If that was the case, she would not cooperate. Men had humiliated her before, to be certain, but she had never and would never aid their efforts. She would not laugh at his jokes.
All during the long drive down the coast, then, she raged at herself. The loss was not great; there was no call for her to ache, so. But it took effort, sustained and pointed effort, to think of him just as she’d thought of those other men. To each of his comments, she made herself smile and reply with perfect courtesy. (The art of discouragement through flirtation was rather like badminton, she thought. So long as the birdie was kept afloat—a compliment offered in return for each one that was served—no points would be scored on either side.) If this was a game, she meant to win. Her earlier delusions about him, her stupid fancies, would not cripple her. She would be spitted and fried before she begged for his attentions again.