She felt herself flushing. “Think what you like. That painting belongs to me.”
“Because you painted its replacement for Madame LeBlanc?” He snorted.
“No.” She was silent for several rounds of the dance floor. She didn’t want to tell him the truth about the painting, but she also hated the idea that he thought her a thief. When really he was the dishonest one.
“Do you remember which painting I took?”
“Yes, it was a family portrait, mother, father and two children.”
She gazed past his shoulder, not meeting his eyes, and said, in a hard little voice—she was determined not to let her voice tremble—“The adults in that painting were my grandparents, the Comte and Comtesse de Chantonney.” She waited but he didn’t react. “The little girl in that painting was my mother, Lady Chantal de Chantonney. The boy was—would have been—my uncle, Lord Philippe Charles Rupert de Chantonney. They were murdered during the Terror, went to the guillotine. Only my mother escaped.”
He said nothing. They twirled around. The warmth of his body soaked into her. Did he believe her or not? She could feel his gaze on her and itched to look up and see his reaction to her revelation, but those eyes: she had a tendency to drown in those eyes, and she wouldn’t allow it.
She was still angry with him. And disappointed. He still couldn’t see that what he had done was very much worse than what she had done. If he couldn’t see why she had every right to the painting she’d taken, she wasn’t going to argue. It was clear that for him, it was all about the money he’d lost being unable to sell it.
After a long silence, he said, “Why pretend to be a maidservant?”
She blinked. That was his first question? “For safety, why else? A poor maidservant draws less attention than an elegantly dressed lady would.” Not that her disguise had guaranteed safety, but she didn’t regret it. “Why did you pretend to be a poor vagabond artist?”
“For fun, why else?” His voice was dry, mocking. She wanted to smack him.
“For funand profit,” she corrected him. “Swindling the poor.” She glanced up at him and found him staring down at her with an unreadable expression.
“If you say so.” He spun her in such a rapid circle the room blurred and she almost lost her balance, but managed to retain it—just. She was never going to let him unbalance her again, not in any way.
Julian didn’t know which he wanted more—to throttle her or to kiss her senseless. She twirled like thistledown in his arms, but she was warm and lovely and…furious.
He didn’t understand it.Hewas the one who’d been betrayed. After a night of making love—glorious love, the likes of which he’d never experienced—she’d vanished into the night without a word, taking the painting with her.
How much of her tale did he believe? When he’d first arrived at the reception, he’d heard the buzz of anticipation and speculation. A surprise cousin from France? He wasn’t sure he believed that. She could just as easily be an imposter, trading on her remarkable likeness to Lady Salcott.
But then there was her visit to the ruined Château de Chantonney. And her tears when she’d told him her grandmother was dead. They’d seemed genuine, and heartfelt—and she’d had no way of knowing he’d waited for her.
Though her grandmother had died decades before, if the tale about the guillotine was true. And those tears were fresh. He didn’t know whether to believe her or not. It could just be a convenient tale she’d made up. She was good at that.
He glanced at the people watching the dancers and intercepted a hard look from Lord Salcott. He was no fool, Lord Salcott, and he wouldn’t be giving a reception for Vit— Zoë if he wasn’t convinced she was the genuine article.
But why would a gently born young lady—a beautiful one, at that—choose to travel alone, pretending to be a dismissed maidservant? Alone and unprotected. Anyone he’d met in France who had any connection to the aristocracy boasted of it—now that the danger of meeting Madame Guillotine was long in the past.
Was she penniless? If so, that would be a reason to contact her rich English relatives, he supposed. And they’d certainly done her proud with this reception and that dress she was wearing. Though the fact that she and Lady Salcott wore identical dresses was a surprise. Why had they chosen to do that? It couldn’t have been an accident.
He twirled her in his arms, every fiber of his body aware of her. She continued avoiding his gaze. A guilty conscience? Or mixed feelings? He could appreciate that. He was equal parts angry and aroused, himself.
Her English was perfect. Too perfect. One would almostimagine it was her native language—except that her French had seemed perfect to him, too. Not that he was an expert French speaker. But she’dknownhe was English, and yet all that time they’d been together she had feigned ignorance of the English language. Why, unless she had something to hide?
But what?
She couldn’t possibly have planned to meet up with him on that dusty country road. It was a coincidence too impossible to believe.
If she’d told him her story back then—that she was a descendant of the Comte de Chantonney, down on her luck—he would have believed her, wouldn’t he?
Maybe not. Too many people these days pretended to be other than who they were. He might even have thought her a maid pretending to be a lady. And why would she have confided in a stranger?
Except that they’d gone far beyond that, especially after that last glorious night they’d spent together. Surely by then she could have trusted him enough to confide in him?
And whyhadshe slept with him? He’d assumed she felt as deeply as he had—and her virginity proved she hadn’t taken the act lightly. As least that’s what he’d thought at the time. Now he had no idea what to think. Surely it wasn’t just to get hold of that blasted painting. She could have stolen that without giving herself to him.
It was all too puzzling.
