Read Online The Devil of Clan Sinclair by Karen Ranney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Ranney
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almost like he had drawn a cold finger along her skin. And the heat bubbling inside? Where did that come from? Her own thoughts? Her recollections of a stolen kiss in London? Or from warm, forbidden dreams after her wedding?
No, this wasn’t a safe place to be. This entire journey had been unsafe. Standing here, without an answer for him, was even more dangerous.
He came to the table, and drew out a chair. She nodded and sat, thanking him. He took his place at the head of the table, an expanse of at least six feet between them.
“Tell me about your marriage,” he said.
She placed her napkin on her lap, rearranged her fork and spoon, moved the wineglass an inch to the left, then to the right.
“What do you want to know?” she finally asked. “My day-to-day routine?”
“I would like you to tell me about your marriage.”
“It was a marriage,” she said with as much equanimity as she could muster. “He was not much interested in me.”
“Were you interested in him?”
She stared down at the plate, wondering at the pattern of the thistles along the edge. There was movement from the shadows, approaching the table. Then one girl served her a steaming bowl of turtle soup while another offered a dish of oyster pâté. She thanked them both.
In the next few minutes the courses started and she didn’t have a chance to answer him. Or did he expect her to speak in front of the servants?
She was given a plate piled with slices of roast venison, accompanied by French mustard, eggs in aspic, slices of duck, and a concoction of peas mixed with mayonnaise.
When the servants melted back into the shadows, he said, “They’re gone.”
In other words, he expected an answer.
“I didn’t like Lawrence,” she said. “I don’t think it mattered to anyone whether or not we liked each other. My father simply wanted something to show for all his money. A title he could brag about.”
She forced herself to pick up the fork and taste the venison. He took a sip of his wine, but otherwise wasn’t eating.
“And you, you wanted the title as well.”
She smiled. “I didn’t care,” she said.
The food was excellent, and when she said as much, he only nodded, as if he expected no less. Was he always surrounded by effortless luxury simply because he was Macrath Sinclair?
He took another sip of wine, the gesture graceful and unhurried.
She’d never been afraid of him, but she feared this meeting, these questions. She might reveal too much.
Silence stretched thin, the only sound her fork as she rested it against the plate. How could she hope to eat when her heart was in her throat?
“Why are you here, only days after you’re made a widow?”
“How did you know?”
“Your coachman.”
“So, you plied Hosking with drink and managed to extricate from him information I would’ve given you gladly had you asked.”
“I didn’t ply him with drink,” he said with a smile. “I asked a question and he answered it. Which is more than you’re doing.”
She took a deep breath, staring down at her plate.
“Almost a year has passed,” he said.
She didn’t raise her head. “Yes.”
“A year in which you went from being an American heiress to a countess. Have you changed, Virginia?”
Had she changed?
What would he say if she told him the truth? She’d changed so drastically she expected to see a different person in the mirror. Someone with more experience in her gaze, her mouth thinned, her face tight with dread.
“What did you expect me to be like?”
“A society matron, perhaps. Someone who had fashion on her mind.”
She could only smile. Had he forgotten the conversations between them, when she confessed to having no love or care whatsoever about what she wore?
“I haven’t changed that much,” she said.
“How do you find being a countess, then?”
“It’s a comfortable life.”
“Are you comfortable in it?” he asked.
What would he say to learn the truth? She decided to test him on
No, this wasn’t a safe place to be. This entire journey had been unsafe. Standing here, without an answer for him, was even more dangerous.
He came to the table, and drew out a chair. She nodded and sat, thanking him. He took his place at the head of the table, an expanse of at least six feet between them.
“Tell me about your marriage,” he said.
She placed her napkin on her lap, rearranged her fork and spoon, moved the wineglass an inch to the left, then to the right.
“What do you want to know?” she finally asked. “My day-to-day routine?”
“I would like you to tell me about your marriage.”
“It was a marriage,” she said with as much equanimity as she could muster. “He was not much interested in me.”
“Were you interested in him?”
She stared down at the plate, wondering at the pattern of the thistles along the edge. There was movement from the shadows, approaching the table. Then one girl served her a steaming bowl of turtle soup while another offered a dish of oyster pâté. She thanked them both.
In the next few minutes the courses started and she didn’t have a chance to answer him. Or did he expect her to speak in front of the servants?
She was given a plate piled with slices of roast venison, accompanied by French mustard, eggs in aspic, slices of duck, and a concoction of peas mixed with mayonnaise.
When the servants melted back into the shadows, he said, “They’re gone.”
In other words, he expected an answer.
“I didn’t like Lawrence,” she said. “I don’t think it mattered to anyone whether or not we liked each other. My father simply wanted something to show for all his money. A title he could brag about.”
She forced herself to pick up the fork and taste the venison. He took a sip of his wine, but otherwise wasn’t eating.
“And you, you wanted the title as well.”
She smiled. “I didn’t care,” she said.
The food was excellent, and when she said as much, he only nodded, as if he expected no less. Was he always surrounded by effortless luxury simply because he was Macrath Sinclair?
He took another sip of wine, the gesture graceful and unhurried.
She’d never been afraid of him, but she feared this meeting, these questions. She might reveal too much.
Silence stretched thin, the only sound her fork as she rested it against the plate. How could she hope to eat when her heart was in her throat?
“Why are you here, only days after you’re made a widow?”
“How did you know?”
“Your coachman.”
“So, you plied Hosking with drink and managed to extricate from him information I would’ve given you gladly had you asked.”
“I didn’t ply him with drink,” he said with a smile. “I asked a question and he answered it. Which is more than you’re doing.”
She took a deep breath, staring down at her plate.
“Almost a year has passed,” he said.
She didn’t raise her head. “Yes.”
“A year in which you went from being an American heiress to a countess. Have you changed, Virginia?”
Had she changed?
What would he say if she told him the truth? She’d changed so drastically she expected to see a different person in the mirror. Someone with more experience in her gaze, her mouth thinned, her face tight with dread.
“What did you expect me to be like?”
“A society matron, perhaps. Someone who had fashion on her mind.”
She could only smile. Had he forgotten the conversations between them, when she confessed to having no love or care whatsoever about what she wore?
“I haven’t changed that much,” she said.
“How do you find being a countess, then?”
“It’s a comfortable life.”
“Are you comfortable in it?” he asked.
What would he say to learn the truth? She decided to test him on
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