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journey there for a night.”
    “You stayed at Versailles? In the palace itself?” Who was this man . . . “Your family must be most influential, Mr. Monroe.” The thought—intended to be kept to herself—slipped past unrestrained.
    Staring at her, he blinked, and an abrupt awareness moved over him. He looked away, and an almost boylike shyness—or was it sadness—overtook his expression.
    “I beg your pardon, Mr. Monroe. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn or—”
    “No.” He shook his head, his smile slowly returning, still genuine, though more guarded than before. “It’s all right, Miss Laurent. No offense taken. I assure you.” His posture, already arrow straight, became more so. “Would you permit me one more question, Miss Laurent?” His gaze grew contemplative. “One . . . far more to the point.”
    The moment between them had passed, and the change in the tone of their conversation was not one Claire welcomed. Yet she had no choice but to nod. “Of course, Mr. Monroe.”
    “Do you make it a habit, ma’am, of . . . hiding beneath church pews?”
    So he had seen her crawl out.
    She looked away, then quickly realized that was what Papa had always done when he lied to her. Thinking of her father brought the threat of tears, but she restrained them—more easily than she would have thought—by remembering how his lying had made her feel.
    She looked back and met Mr. Monroe’s discerning gaze. She didn’t want to lie. But how much of the truth to tell this man was another matter entirely.
    “No, Mr. Monroe, I don’t. As it happened, I saw this church and decided to come inside.” She tried to add a smile, thinking it would help lessen the tension of the moment, but she found herself unable to sustain it. “Two women came into the church sometime after me.” She motioned to the front doors, but his focus remained steady on her. Very steady. “They didn’t see me when they first walked in, and I hated to interrupt their conversation, which quickly took a more private turn, so I . . .”
    She licked her lips, realizing she was rambling, and that she was absolutely no good at this. At telling a more condensed version of the truth while still not telling a lie. But one thing she did know. . . .
    Saying the least she could would serve her best.
    “So I hid beneath the pew. Not with the intention of eavesdropping, I give you my solemn oath. But only to prevent them from—” Hearing, inside her head, what she was about to say, she winced, realizing there was no excuse for her actions, however innocent they’d been. She’d known it then, and she knew it now. “I did it to prevent them from seeing me, and from feeling uncomfortable . . . once they discovered that I was privy to their conversation.”
    The blue of his eyes took on a steely cast. He looked around the sanctuary. Searching for what, she didn’t know. Then his gaze snagged on her unlaced boots lying on the floor.
    Telling doubt registered in his face, followed by swift question, and Claire raced to think of something to say that would explain it away. Then he looked at her again, more thoroughly, as though seeing her for the first time, and every possible explanation that flew to her tongue suddenly fell flat.
    His gaze, patient in its perusal, traveled the length of her body. Not in a lewd manner, but in one more akin to a detective working to solve a mystery. Or worse, a crime. Comprehension replaced the question in his eyes. And Claire’s embarrassment returned in a flood.
    Seeing herself through his eyes, she became painfully aware of her rumpled dress, and her sagging, matted-down curls. What hurt the most was the realization that, of all the men she’d met since coming of age, this man was one she would have liked to have known better.
    Even more, she would have liked him to think well of her, maybe even desire to know her better too.
    She lowered her eyes. “I can explain, Mr. Monroe. I arrived in Nashville