She jerked her head up. He was grinning, obviously finding her discomfort amusing.
“I was under the impression that—except for Pocket’s unfortunate intrusion—everything was quite splendid, but if you feel a mistake was made, perhaps we should try again.”
Francesca frowned. “You know very well that’s not what I mean. It—that—what we did was entirely improper.” The words tumbled out in an avalanche. “We’re not married. We’re not even betrothed!”
He uncrossed his arms and took a step closer. “Everyone thinks we’re betrothed.”
She gave him an exasperated look. “But it’s not the truth! You and I know the truth.”
He seemed to consider for a moment. “And if we were betrothed? In truth?”
“If we—” She broke off, spread her arms. “What difference does it make? We’renotbe—”
“Did Roxbury touch you like I did?” His tone, suddenly sharp and angry, sent a shiver of fear through her. She took a step back, closer to the door behind her. His face was dark and unreadable.
“What kind of question is that?” she said, taken off guard. She felt beads of perspiration break on her lower lip and the small of her back. “You have no right to ask me such personal questions.”
“The devil I don’t!” His voice rose and she inched away from him again, surprised at the vehemence of his reaction.
“You’re mine, and I want to know if that bastard touched you.” He moved toward her again, balling his fists at his sides.
She stared at him, too shocked to speak. Her mouth was agape, wide with her astonishment.
“I’m yours?” Her voice was breathless, almost inaudible over the sound of the wind.
He frowned, waved a dismissive hand. “Mine to protect, I mean.”
She pursed her lips. “And how does my past relationship with Roxbury affect your ability to protect me?”
She had him there. She could see the frustration in his eyes. He was fast searching for an answer. Then frustration turned to anger again
“The devil if I know.” Unexpectedly, he reached out to clasp her arm. “Just answer the question.”
She gave him a hard look. He never made anything easy. All she had wanted was to put some distance between them, and now he was asking her to open herself up to him even more. “Fine. I’ll answer the question,” she said. “If you answer one of mine.”
He released her and spread his arms, all accommodation.
“What was your brother doing here tonight?”
His gaze fossilized.
“What were you discussing?”
“Family matters.” His voice was gravel grinding under a carriage wheel.
Liar! she thought. But she raised her eyebrows and said sweetly, “Can you be more specific?”
The line between his brows deepened. “Business matters.”
She gave him a dubious look. “And what urgent business brings your brother to Tanglewilde on a cold, stormy morning before the sun is even up?” He gave her a warning look, but she ignored it. “Could the family business be spying, by any chance?”
“I’m not a spy.” A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he kept his voice level. “Neither is Selbourne. We were discussing—”
“Traveling to France,” she interrupted. Surprise flickered in his eyes before he doused it. She relished a quick spurt of satisfaction. “Selbourne wanted to go to Paris. You said no and sent him to London.” She pushed her advantage. “Will that please Lord Grenville, do you think?” There were knives in his stare, but she didn’t care. How dare he expect her to trust him, tell him her deepest secrets, and then stand here and lie to her?
“Lord Grenville is the Secretary of the Foreign Office, is he not?” she asked, anger mounting. “And Selbourne discussed traveling to a country with whom we are at war. How do you explain that, Lord Winterbourne?”
He said nothing. His jaw was clenched so tightly it would probably whine in protest if he tried opening it.
