“So you are particular.”
“I am not particular, I am almost a…” She paused. “I don’t know the word in French. I am unmarried because no one has asked.”
“No one has asked?” He made a noise in his throat. “Englishmen are fools.”
“And Breton farmhands,” she said, “are apparently shameless flirts. Don’t think I don’t realize what you’re doing. You’re hoping to distract me, change the subject.”
“Not at all. Your marital status is a subject I greatly wish to discuss.”
She sighed. “Be serious, I beg you. You must tell me the truth. Can’t you see? Lord Rycliff will send for the magistrate in the morning.”
“Magistrates do not frighten me.”
“I am frightened for you.”
He looked into her blue eyes, and he could see it was true. She cared. Perhaps she cared no more for him than she would any other lost, benighted soul. But right now, it didn’t matter. She cared, and he felt it to his bones.
“Why did you come to Spindle Cove tonight?” she asked.
“I…” He cleared his throat. “I had an appointment.”
“An appointment? With whom?”
He swept her with a warm, caressing gaze. “With an angel, apparently.”
She clucked her tongue. “More teasing.”
“No teasing. I am here for you.”
“If that’s not teasing, it’s a flat-out lie.”
He inched the chair forward, desperate to close the distance between them. He spoke to her quietly, honestly. From the depths of his cold, longsuffering heart.
“I’m here for you, mon ange. Violet. I would cross a world for you.”
Violet went perfectly still.
When she could manage it, she whispered four words. In English. “You know my name.”
His expression betrayed no understanding. He sat back in his chair and blinked.
She tried again. “You know me.”
No response.
In her lap, Violet’s hands balled into fists. She didn’t understand. If he knew her and needed her help, why didn’t he just say so? But if he were truly a stranger, how had he learned her name?
Across the room, Mr. Fosbury looked up. “Any progress, Miss Winterbottom?”
Well. There was one question answered. Hadn’t her friends been calling her by name all evening? Beginning with Kate and Susanna in the ballroom, and ending with Mr. Fosbury right now. The name Violet Winterbottom was hardly a secret.
Violet rose from her chair. “I’m having difficulty making him out,” she told the tavern-keeper, giving him a self-conscious smile. “Perhaps some tea will help me concentrate.”
She rose and went to a table where the maids had laid out tea service. As she poured a fragrant, steaming cupful, her mind churned.
It was easy enough to explain how he’d learned her name. But that didn’t explain the intensity in his eyes. It didn’t explain the way he affected her, deep inside.
It didn’t explain the eerily familiar freckle beneath his left ear.
Violet. I would cross a world for you.
The memory sent a frisson chasing over her skin.
It was impossible, unthinkable. But the more she observed and spoke with the man, the more she felt certain he was The Disappointment.
She closed her eyes. Time to stop hiding from that name.
She felt certain he was Christian. There were differences, yes. But the similarities were so numerous, and her reaction to him so strong, she was starting to believe it must be him.
And yet—if he were Christian, what was he doing here, and not in the West Indies? Why would he bother to row into the cove, trudge across fields, and claim to be a Breton farmhand? He could have simply pulled up in the drive, knocked at the door, and said, “I’m Lord Christian Pierce, third son of the Duke of Winford.” It’s not as though he would have difficulty speaking to Violet, if he wished to. And he hadn’t wished to—not in almost a year.
Christian would not have crossed a world for her. He couldn’t even be bothered to cross the square and bid her a proper farewell.
As she stirred sugar into her tea, she stole another look at the dark, intriguing man lashed to a chair. Perhaps even he didn’t know who he was. Perhaps he was stark raving mad, or suffering from amnesia.
She let the spoon fall to the tray, exasperated with her mind’s wild contortions. “Truly, Violet,” she muttered to herself. “Amnesia?”
She returned to her chair, not knowing what to think, nor even what to hope.
“Will you take tea?” she asked in French.
He made a face. “Wine is more to my taste.”
“Very well.” She offered the wine to him, holding the cup to his lips. He took a languid draught, staring at her all the while. She watched his bared, unshaven throat working as he swallowed. The view felt sensual and intimate.
When she lowered the wine, his heated gaze roamed her body. “I have come to a realization, mon ange. Englishmen are not merely fools. They are perfect idiots.”
A blush burned its way up her chest.