“I remember,” she whispered.
Her voice, so soft and deep, as if dragged from her deepest self, drew him closer. The shadows obscured her face, but what he could see shone pale and drained. Her body trembled so close to him. Desire? Her gaze flicked back over her shoulder. Not desire. The damned bench edge. He wrapped his arm around her waist to steady her, but his pleasure at the soft warmth of her body ended when she stood and strode away.
“Of course, I remember.” Her voice rose confidently on the night air, exhibiting a definite note of dismissal.
He almost growled. It shouldn’t matter to him if she dismissed him and what they had shared. He would be engaged by week’s end, after all, and she was … What was she? Not married, as he’d thought. Miss Blake had not become Mrs. Someone Else. Engaged, then, likely.
“I also remember,” she continued, “you took the necklace back before the end of the party.”
“I never took it back.” He hadn’t had time to think about it. Everything had deteriorated so swiftly.
Her head cocked to the side and her mouth hung open. “Well,” she finally said. “It must be lost. Or stolen. Either way, I don’t have it.”
“I’m in no mood for jesting, Henrietta.”
“And neither am I. I don’t have the necklace, Lord Rigsby. But why would you need it? It couldn’t have cost much.”
He popped off the bench like a lightning bolt striking up instead of down.
“What part of I’m not in the mood for jokes do you not understand?!”
Her back stiffened. “I do not jest,” she ground out. “Why would I?”
He strode closer, dipped his head to peer into her face, then pressed his fingertips below her chin and tipped her face upward. He searched her eyes. For what? Even if he found heated memories and a conflagration of longing to match his own, he could do nothing about it. The necklace, he reminded himself. That’s what you’re looking for. Yes.
Concentration proved difficult with Henrietta so near, her pert chin cradled in his hand. But he focused, looked one last time, and saw what he needed to see—confusion, indignation. By God, he was an ass. “You’re not lying,” he said, dropping his hand and stepping away. “I didn’t tell you when I gave it to you?”
“Tell me what?”
“The necklace was my mother’s. And my grandmother’s before. It has belonged to every Duchess of Devonmere since the very first duke gifted it to his wife.”
“Truly?” She sounded skeptical. He understood why. The necklace looked so inconsequential. A simple gold locket shaped like a bird threaded through a fine gold chain. “I didn’t know.”
“I need the necklace.”
“Are you sure you didn’t take it back? I thought you had.”
“I don’t have it.” And neither did she. What would he tell Lady Willow? Her mother? His mother? “Bloody hell!”
Henrietta ignored his curse and drummed her fingers on her forearm, lost in thought.
“You’re doing that thing.” Grayson inched closer. “With your fingers. It means you’re thinking. What are you thinking?”
She marched back and forth, tapping her fingers. “That the necklace must still be here.”
He shook his head. “If you don’t have it, and I don’t have it, it’s been stolen.”
“Then you won’t find it. But you should at least try.”
He blinked. She had a point.
“You’ll have to search the room I used last year. And the one you used, as well.”
“The wing the guests stayed in last year has been cordoned off.”
“Only for improvements.” She shrugged a slender, elegant shoulder and the silver threads shot through her gray dress shone like stars in the moonlight. He reached for the anger he’d clutched tightly in his chest for the last year. Where had it disappeared to? How was it a lift of her shoulder and the practical tilt of her head could erase the pain?
No. Not all the pain. He’d loved her, and she’d left.
