Susan Carroll Read Online Free PDF Page B

regret greatly that she had removed her own mask. The
marquis had her at a decided disadvantage.
    "My grandfather, my lord," she said, firmly
steering him toward the one topic she wished to discuss. "You have
been at great pains to convince him I should remain in Bath.
Why?"
    "Now that I have seen you, I almost regret my
advice." The look which accompanied these words made her pulse
skip, made her nearly forget he had evaded her question.
    "Only almost?" she challenged.
    "I naturally assumed you would wish to live
in seclusion, to be alone with your grief. According to your grandpere , it was your own idea to remove to Bath, n'est-ce pas ?"
    Phaedra could not deny this. The trip to Bath
had been her doing. After Ewan's accident, she had desperately
needed some time alone, not to grieve, but to reconsider her future
prospects away from the presence of her domineering grandfather.
But that had always been a temporary measure. She now coldly
informed the marquis, "I never intended to be banished to Bath for
the rest of my life. I have had more than enough time to recover
from my husband's death."
    "And yet your widowhood is most recent." The
unfathomable blue eyes skimmed over her gown, lingering for the
briefest moment upon the creamy swell of breast exposed by her
decolletage.
    Phaedra stiffened, mustering all her
defenses. Did he, too, look to criticize her for abandoning her
widow's weeds? What right had he to judge her? He understood no
better than anyone else the six years of subtle hell that she had
endured. When Ewan died, her tears had been tears of relief rather
than sorrow.
    "Yes, my widowhood is recent. Too recent to
suit me. Ewan should have been in his grave a long time ago." She
looked at Armande to gauge the effect of her bitter words.
    His eyes widened a moment before resuming
their normal hooded expression. "There is no sadness at all in your
heart for his death? Not one regret?"
    “No!"
    "But I understand your husband was a most-"
He hesitated, as if searching for the correct word, "A most
estimable man. Young, handsome, and intelligent."
    Phaedra was so weary of this eulogizing of
Ewan Grantham. So charming, so handsome. Such a tragedy that he
should perish so young, in such a gruesome riding accident. Now
that he was dead, society would make him a saint, casting herself
into the role of black-hearted villainess who had not shed one tear
for that ‘estimable’ man. Even this cold, emotionless marquis took
Ewan's part. It was so unjust, for Lord Varnais did not know the
truth of her life with Ewan. But if he wished to be as ignorant as
the others, to perceive her as shallow and heartless, who was she
to disappoint him?
    As they went down the dance, Phaedra said,
"Now that you mention it, I do have one regret. Ewan died in the
autumn, and I was obliged to wear black for the Christmas holidays.
I do so loathe black. It is not at all my color."
    "I would have thought black most becoming to
you. Such a foil for that magnificent, fiery hair. "
    Now she was certain that he mocked her. "La,
sir, but you Frenchmen are smooth-tongued rascals. Are all those in
your family so clever? I have never heard the name de LeCroix
before. Where are you from?"
    "France, my lady. It is where most Frenchmen
are from."
    "Have you been in London long?"
    "Scarcely long enough."
    Phaedra bit her lip in vexation. The man was
a master of evasion.
    "It is a perilous time for you to be enjoying
yourself in London, my lord, is it not? Our two countries are
drawing so close to a declaration of war. It is expected any day
that your king will side with the American colonists, championing
them in their quest for freedom."
    "That is a strange phrase to spring from the
lips of an English lady. I suspect you have been reading too much
of that-what is the name of that rogue- Robin Goodfellow?"
    "Yes, I have heard a little of his writings.”
Phaedra's eyes swept down and she pretended to concentrate on her
steps. "But many others have been