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there was so much there to see in her eyes, a man could not be faulted for wanting more. He leaned his side against his chair, his elbow over the back, and stretched out one leg while he watched her. "I believe," he said in a low voice, "that we have a mutual acquaintance."
Without taking her eyes from his cup, she replied in a soft voice, "Not a mutual friend, I am afraid. Unless you mean someone besides the Earl of Crosshaven."
"I do not"
Her expression closed off. "You have a bouquet of flowers, here." She pointed to a mass of leaves. "That signifies you are to be happy in love."
"I was," he said. "Once. But no longer."
She looked at him. "I am not reading your past, my lord, but your future."
"Happy in love?" he said, looking into her eyes. "I fear that is quite impossible."
“The tea leaves never lie," she replied.
He wriggled his fingers over his cup. "Pray continue."
Chapter Three
HOW LOUD HER HEART BEAT IN HER EARS. HER FINGERS would be shaking if she hadn't curled them around the teacup in front of her.
Sabine kept her attention fixed on the leaves clinging to the interior of the marquess's teacup and wondered how much Lord Foye knew about her. Safest for her to assume that the man sitting across from her had heard every boast Lord Crosshaven had ever made concerning her, all of them lies, whether said in relative private to his cronies or pronounced at some assembly to which she and her uncle would never have been invited. Lies to which a rebuttal proved impossible.
How many thousands of miles from England did she have to go before she could live without fear of being thought a whore? Or would Lord Foye, whom she had not met when she and Godard were in London, be like the others who had assumed she was now fair game for seduction? She flicked a glance at him, resentful and apprehensive at the same time. He might do her a great deal of damage if he desired. Better she find out now than later.
He was a physically formidable man, which she did not care for. Not only tall but muscular, with broad shoulders and chest, and thighs shaped by vigorous activity. And unlike Godard, she was well aware that his clothes were exquisitely made. He probably did spend hours before his mirror.
Lord Foye was head and shoulders taller than she. His hair was dark, not quite black, and quite willful in its curls. His eyes were the same blue as the Mediterranean. His nose was hooked, and the remainder of his features were set irregularly in his face, as if someone had put the parts together and then given him a hard shake before everything had quite settled into place.
She had, in her life, never met a peer until she and her uncle went to London where he was knighted. The aristocracy she'd found terrible in the extreme. They were a proud lot, too aware of their consequence and too overbearing in their expectation that she would be transported by the honor of an introduction.
Her mistake in believing the same of Foye became clear the moment he sat down to have her read his tea leaves. Not so much a proud man, she decided, as reserved. His consequence fit him like his clothes: exquisitely and without ostentation, but underneath there ran a river too deep to sound.
No one could spend five minutes in a room with the Marquess of Foye and not understand that here was a man to be reckoned with. Despite his title, despite his connection to Crosshaven, and even despite that he quite obviously knew every word that had been said about her, Sabine wanted very much to like him.
She was no longer so willing to believe the best of anyone.
Lord Foye sat sideways on his chair, one leg crossed over the other. When she looked up, he caught her glance. She'd been silent in her thoughts for too long.
"You have a complicated future," she said.
"Take your time," Foye replied. He had a deep voice. He spoke quietly, sure of himself, with a fullness of tone in his words that suggested nothing but that he hoped to be amused.
Without taking her eyes from his cup, she replied in a soft voice, "Not a mutual friend, I am afraid. Unless you mean someone besides the Earl of Crosshaven."
"I do not"
Her expression closed off. "You have a bouquet of flowers, here." She pointed to a mass of leaves. "That signifies you are to be happy in love."
"I was," he said. "Once. But no longer."
She looked at him. "I am not reading your past, my lord, but your future."
"Happy in love?" he said, looking into her eyes. "I fear that is quite impossible."
“The tea leaves never lie," she replied.
He wriggled his fingers over his cup. "Pray continue."
Chapter Three
HOW LOUD HER HEART BEAT IN HER EARS. HER FINGERS would be shaking if she hadn't curled them around the teacup in front of her.
Sabine kept her attention fixed on the leaves clinging to the interior of the marquess's teacup and wondered how much Lord Foye knew about her. Safest for her to assume that the man sitting across from her had heard every boast Lord Crosshaven had ever made concerning her, all of them lies, whether said in relative private to his cronies or pronounced at some assembly to which she and her uncle would never have been invited. Lies to which a rebuttal proved impossible.
How many thousands of miles from England did she have to go before she could live without fear of being thought a whore? Or would Lord Foye, whom she had not met when she and Godard were in London, be like the others who had assumed she was now fair game for seduction? She flicked a glance at him, resentful and apprehensive at the same time. He might do her a great deal of damage if he desired. Better she find out now than later.
He was a physically formidable man, which she did not care for. Not only tall but muscular, with broad shoulders and chest, and thighs shaped by vigorous activity. And unlike Godard, she was well aware that his clothes were exquisitely made. He probably did spend hours before his mirror.
Lord Foye was head and shoulders taller than she. His hair was dark, not quite black, and quite willful in its curls. His eyes were the same blue as the Mediterranean. His nose was hooked, and the remainder of his features were set irregularly in his face, as if someone had put the parts together and then given him a hard shake before everything had quite settled into place.
She had, in her life, never met a peer until she and her uncle went to London where he was knighted. The aristocracy she'd found terrible in the extreme. They were a proud lot, too aware of their consequence and too overbearing in their expectation that she would be transported by the honor of an introduction.
Her mistake in believing the same of Foye became clear the moment he sat down to have her read his tea leaves. Not so much a proud man, she decided, as reserved. His consequence fit him like his clothes: exquisitely and without ostentation, but underneath there ran a river too deep to sound.
No one could spend five minutes in a room with the Marquess of Foye and not understand that here was a man to be reckoned with. Despite his title, despite his connection to Crosshaven, and even despite that he quite obviously knew every word that had been said about her, Sabine wanted very much to like him.
She was no longer so willing to believe the best of anyone.
Lord Foye sat sideways on his chair, one leg crossed over the other. When she looked up, he caught her glance. She'd been silent in her thoughts for too long.
"You have a complicated future," she said.
"Take your time," Foye replied. He had a deep voice. He spoke quietly, sure of himself, with a fullness of tone in his words that suggested nothing but that he hoped to be amused.
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