She looked up into a countenance of such simple pleasure that something tender and painful caught in her chest. Perhaps Jacqueline was right. Perhaps he was not always a wolf.

That assessment lasted less than a minute.

“Dear God. How I want to kiss you.” His voice was husky, his attention entirely upon her lips. “I need to kiss you.”

“If you kiss me here you will shame me.”

“If I kiss you here I will—” He broke off. “Was that a tacit acceptance?”

“I—”

“Not acceptance of the location of the kiss, of course. But of the kiss itself.”

She could not bear it. He made her want to laugh and cry and dance all at once. She directed her gaze pointedly over his shoulder. “You are—”

“Absurd. Yes, you have noted that before.”

“You cannot help but interrupt me. I was going to say that you are as much of a reprobate as your cousin.”

“In desire, perhaps. But my deeds are confined to one woman.” His fingers spread upon her back, teasing the edge of the gown then steeling over her skin. “His are distributed rather thinly amongst many. Regardez.”

Seeking distraction, sanity, anything to stanch the agitated heat gathering inside her, she followed his gaze. Lord Bedwyr stood at the center of a group of ladies, laughing as they waved their fans before their cheeks.

Arabella frowned. “I do not understand why he insisted on that farcical wedding.”

Luc drew her closer, beyond propriety’s separation, so that if she fought the strength of his arms she would trip.

“It was not farcical,” he said above her brow. “And he did it because he knew I wished it.”

“You did not wish to marry me anymore than I wished to marry you. You wished only to have me that once, as I did. We thought you would die. It should never have come to this.”

Finally it was said aloud.

She held her breath, biting down on the inside of her lip.

He did not deny it.

His hand tightened on her back. He drew her close and bent his head beside hers. “It has been more than a month, Arabella. Long enough to know.” His voice was rough. “Tell me. Do you carry my child?”

Crumbling a bit inside she whispered, “I do not.”

He said nothing.

“If the duchess’s child is a boy,” she said, “you needn’t worry about your brother inheriting.”

“Bedwyr told you.”

“No one needed to tell me. The whole household knows of your family’s situation. The ladies-in-waiting were gossiping about it all morning.” She could not meet his gaze. “I will accept an annulment without protest. I will expect nothing from you in return for it. No one else need ever know.”

There was a long silence.

“I do not wish an annulment,” he said.

“You do. You must.”

“No, I mustn’t, little governess who levels commands like she was born a duchess. What will you command next, I wonder. That I must find a fresh knife and continue the project those fellows began on the beach? Or perhaps you would command me to cut a bit higher, to carve out my heart and put it in a box on the shelf so it will not inconvenience you again.”

He could not mean it. He did not mean it. He flirted and teased as though it meant nothing, when it meant everything to her.

It meant everything to her.

The heart that she had thought did not exist now beat in a full galloping panic beneath her ribs. She had always run—from the foundling home, from the Reverend, and from the men who had tried to use her. But she could never run from him. The worst of it was that she did not wish to. She wished to be lost again, this time to him. Willingly she would lose herself and then she would be gone forever.

She broke free of his hold. They stood like Greek statues amidst the swirling skirts and coattails and sparkling jewels of dancers all about them. In his face she saw the truth. He had not told her everything about their hasty wedding. He was still lying to her.

“You speak as though your words have no consequences,” she said. “But this game is over. You must cease playing it.”

“I will not release you, Arabella.”

She reached up and dragged the tiara from her hair. “You cannot cajole my sentiments or purchase my obedience, my lord.”

Couples around them slowed and halted, watching.

He did not move to accept the tiara. “Now who seeks to shame whom?” His voice was a dark rumble.

“I am the only one shamed here. In trusting you I shamed myself.”

He snatched the tiara from her fingers, and in his face was furious vulnerability.

With her chin high as she passed between the guests, she fled. Every ounce of her self-possession fought not to run.

Chapter 12

The Bride

“They talked of it for hours.” Jacqueline stood behind her at the dressing table, passing the bristles of a silver-backed brush through Arabella’s hair. “French aristocrats are routinely scandalous, but they never expect it of the English. Your waltz and quarrel with the comte came as a refreshing surprise.” Her laughing gaze met Arabella’s in the mirror.

Arabella’s own eyes were clear. After she left the ball, she had removed the gown meant for a princess and gave it to the maid to take away. Then she sat by the hearth until the sounds of revelry faded and Jacqueline came to her bedchamber.

“Everybody would have known of the origin of the tiara soon enough anyway,” the princess said, brushing slowly. “The servants were probably gossiping from the moment I gave it to you. No information remains secret for long in a house such as this.”

“None?”

Jacqueline’s lips twisted. “Except perhaps the news that you are not in fact a governess.”

“I am a governess.”

“Only until the comte announces your secret wedding. Reiner thought he intended to do so tonight. Your quarrel must have thwarted him. Oh, Bella, you must make it up to him immediately so I can embrace you publicly as my friend and no longer my servant.”

Arabella stood and went to the clothing press and opened it. Jacqueline had lent her new undergarments; her old linens were folded neatly within. She moved aside the petticoat and revealed the ring nestled upon the chemise. She withdrew it and tied the ribbon around her neck. Wearing the ball gown, she had missed the weight of it. It was familiar. Comforting.

“Why is your marriage a secret?”

“Jacqueline, I cannot remain here.”

The princess set the brush down on the table. “You will not tell me the trouble between you and the comte, will you?”

“I am leaving tomorrow.”

“Does he know?”

He would discover it swiftly enough. But hopefully, with distance his lust and pride would cool and he would see that it was for the best. In the meantime she would begin searching for her father, this time without relying on a prince to reveal him to her.

“You must do what you need,” Jacqueline said. “I know nothing of the complications of married life, of course. But I wish you would remain.”

“I cannot.” The moment of panicked terror she felt during the dance had passed, but not the agitation to be gone and away from him.

“Bella,” the princess said, “I must admit to being sorry that you will not be with me in London.”

“You know all you must to acquit yourself splendidly.”

“I am uncomfortable with gentlemen,” she said with a serious twist of her brow. “I had hoped you would school me to become better accustomed to them.”

“I fear I would be no more knowledgeable than my student in that matter.” Not if Luc Westfall was her examination.