His eyes widened fractionally before they reverted to their impassive stare. “You say that now, my lady, but then, we are not wed. If we were to wed, would you still feel the same way?”
My lady.
The distance in those two words made her want to punch him even more.
Phaedra snorted. Loudly. “Earlier you called me Phaedra. Last night you called me love. Now you call me my lady. Why not just call mewenchand be done with it? It’s what you do behind my back anyway.”
His lips parted, but no sound emerged.
“Just as I thought. Let me tell you something, you scoundrel, if we were to wed right this moment, I wouldn’t feel any different. Unlike other people, I don’t lay the sins of the father at the feet of his children. Best remember that.”
He advanced on her, a dangerous glint entering his gaze. “What about in a year, two, three, ten, when thetonlearns of Abigail’s existence? You would be ridiculed right alongside her.”
“I would protect the child with my life,” Phaedra said with a lift of her chin.
“Your friends would mock you.”
She scoffed. “They’d be no friends of mine if they mocked my daughter.”
He stopped before her. So close, if she reached out, she could trace a finger over his marble face. But she waited, wanting to see how he would test her next.
“Yourdaughter?”
“Of course,” Phaedra said. “My husband’s daughter would become my daughter.”
His eyes searched hers.
Whatever he was looking for, apparently, he did not find, for he said, “Go home, Phaedra.”
So this was the withdrawn, detached, private earl her mother and aunt had spoken of. Phaedra had witnessed the warm, passionate, mischievous side of him, and she wasn’t about to let him sink into a bog of coldness. He had helped her. She would help him.
“No,” Phaedra announced. “You’ve seen the inside of my drawing room, but I haven’t seen the inside of yours. It would be rude not to return the favor.”
Deerhurst blinked, and Phaedra seized his momentary distraction to march past him and into his house.
“Phaedra!” he growled. “Where the hell are you going?”
There now.
That was much better.
*
Deerhurst stared atPhaedra as she and Abigail laid out the blanket and spread for their picnic. Once she’d inspected every inch of his drawing room and learned he’d prepared a picnic before they’d called off their fake engagement, there was no stopping her. So, he had agreed—against his better judgment—to host the picnic in the garden. No amount of persuasion worked on the woman once she set her mind on something.
But then again, she was a Sharp.
And he still hadn’t recovered from earlier. Deerhurst had never felt panic rise as swift and sure as the moment he spotted her with his daughter. Everything around him had slowed to unbearably slow motion, as though he were but a spectator of his life and not actively participating in it.
Not a feeling he ever wanted to experience again.
He’d been certain he’d find a hint of revulsion in her demeanor, some little clue that gave away her distaste. He hadn’t found it, and she claimed he would not. Try as he might, Deerhurst had detected no artifice or malice in her tone or posture.
Now they were on a picnic, and he found himself relaxing more each moment he heard Abigail’s laughter weaving and intertwining with Phaedra’s—one innocent giggle, the other true delight.
It could mess with a man’s bloody mind.
He regarded the setup with a skeptical eye. “I should have arranged to have a table and chairs set up.”
