Read Online Forged by Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 4 by Lynne Connolly - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lynne Connolly
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cultivated, the one that prevented too much prying or showing more than one wanted to. And the other, the one that separated the person and the god, that concealed the utter power lying under the fine silks and satins.
What he saw now was a startlingly beautiful woman. She had glossy blonde hair in an arrangement that looked like a simple swirl of curls and pins, but he’d wager it took an hour to do, and expensive though tasteful clothes. When she sat, she draped her hands over her fan on her lap, one on top of the other, the nails manicured and polished. Just like her. She could be sitting for her portrait.
“I came in my crested carriage,” he said. “In case you were wondering.”
“I was not,” she replied, “but thank you.” It would tell the world he was visiting her. With her mother in residence and the lady a widow past her first youth, the visit would be perfectly acceptable, if the other woman was present. She was not, but nobody need know that.
“You should not give up,” he said softly. “If you give ground now, you may never have the liberty of returning.”
“I may not wish it. I have an excellent property in France.”
“You came back for a reason. May we not help you to achieve it?”
She shook her head, the two ringlets artfully escaping from the curls gathered at the top of her head grazing her neck. “I am perfectly content. Except—” Her upper teeth grazed her lower lip before she spoke again. “I am concerned for Marcus, of course.”
“Do you believe the woman?”
“Do you ?” Her eyes opened slightly. If he hadn’t been watching her so carefully he’d have missed it. She got to her feet, laying her fan aside. “Would you like tea?”
The tea was ready made in the pot. Most ladies made a rigmarole of spooning the leaves into the pot and pouring in the hot water. Harry liked the lack of fuss. “Yes, please.”
She lifted the delicate china teapot, adorned with a pattern of beautifully painted spring flowers, and poured the liquid into two porcelain dishes, set in their deep saucers. Everything she did was so graceful, so elegant that she was beginning to annoy him, in a perverse way. He wanted her to spill some drops of tea or put the teapot back on the silver tray crooked. But of course she did none of those things. She placed the dish and saucer precisely on a small table by his side. Then she took her own to a similar one by her chair, where she’d deposited her fan.
“I believe her,” Harry said. “You know she visited me the day before yesterday?” Virginie nodded. “Of course, your mother chaperoned. She will have told you.”
Her eyes widened again. “She did not tell me.”
A surprise to him. Why would her mother keep that interview secret? “The lady came to see me. Rhea Simpson, the daughter of one of my tenants in the north. Unfortunately, Miss Simpson is the daughter of Sir Samuel Simpson, a landowner, not a villager. She claims Lyndhurst seduced her, clandestinely married her, and she gave birth to twins. She appeared sincere.”
“I cannot believe it!” she burst out, distress creasing her brow for a bare instant before she took a breath and the marks smoothed. “How could he…”
“My dear, gentlemen do such things.”
She turned a look of total limpid disinterest on to him, her blue eyes pools of tranquillity. “And why should you care about such matters?”
“Because I care about you.” He spoke the truth, he realised with a touch of shock. He did care, more than he should. Not for the glossy surface, but he detected something beneath, something worthwhile, different. The only way he would discover that was to get close to her. That part was instinctive, and he didn’t yet trust it. She was beautiful, desirable; even now, half London wanted her.
She tilted her head to the side. One of those damnable curls fell over the naked part of her shoulder to graze the skin above her gauzy neckcloth. So tempting. “What is she
What he saw now was a startlingly beautiful woman. She had glossy blonde hair in an arrangement that looked like a simple swirl of curls and pins, but he’d wager it took an hour to do, and expensive though tasteful clothes. When she sat, she draped her hands over her fan on her lap, one on top of the other, the nails manicured and polished. Just like her. She could be sitting for her portrait.
“I came in my crested carriage,” he said. “In case you were wondering.”
“I was not,” she replied, “but thank you.” It would tell the world he was visiting her. With her mother in residence and the lady a widow past her first youth, the visit would be perfectly acceptable, if the other woman was present. She was not, but nobody need know that.
“You should not give up,” he said softly. “If you give ground now, you may never have the liberty of returning.”
“I may not wish it. I have an excellent property in France.”
“You came back for a reason. May we not help you to achieve it?”
She shook her head, the two ringlets artfully escaping from the curls gathered at the top of her head grazing her neck. “I am perfectly content. Except—” Her upper teeth grazed her lower lip before she spoke again. “I am concerned for Marcus, of course.”
“Do you believe the woman?”
“Do you ?” Her eyes opened slightly. If he hadn’t been watching her so carefully he’d have missed it. She got to her feet, laying her fan aside. “Would you like tea?”
The tea was ready made in the pot. Most ladies made a rigmarole of spooning the leaves into the pot and pouring in the hot water. Harry liked the lack of fuss. “Yes, please.”
She lifted the delicate china teapot, adorned with a pattern of beautifully painted spring flowers, and poured the liquid into two porcelain dishes, set in their deep saucers. Everything she did was so graceful, so elegant that she was beginning to annoy him, in a perverse way. He wanted her to spill some drops of tea or put the teapot back on the silver tray crooked. But of course she did none of those things. She placed the dish and saucer precisely on a small table by his side. Then she took her own to a similar one by her chair, where she’d deposited her fan.
“I believe her,” Harry said. “You know she visited me the day before yesterday?” Virginie nodded. “Of course, your mother chaperoned. She will have told you.”
Her eyes widened again. “She did not tell me.”
A surprise to him. Why would her mother keep that interview secret? “The lady came to see me. Rhea Simpson, the daughter of one of my tenants in the north. Unfortunately, Miss Simpson is the daughter of Sir Samuel Simpson, a landowner, not a villager. She claims Lyndhurst seduced her, clandestinely married her, and she gave birth to twins. She appeared sincere.”
“I cannot believe it!” she burst out, distress creasing her brow for a bare instant before she took a breath and the marks smoothed. “How could he…”
“My dear, gentlemen do such things.”
She turned a look of total limpid disinterest on to him, her blue eyes pools of tranquillity. “And why should you care about such matters?”
“Because I care about you.” He spoke the truth, he realised with a touch of shock. He did care, more than he should. Not for the glossy surface, but he detected something beneath, something worthwhile, different. The only way he would discover that was to get close to her. That part was instinctive, and he didn’t yet trust it. She was beautiful, desirable; even now, half London wanted her.
She tilted her head to the side. One of those damnable curls fell over the naked part of her shoulder to graze the skin above her gauzy neckcloth. So tempting. “What is she
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