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Quin ran his hand over his mouth and chin as though to control the first words that came to him. ‘My orders were to establish the truth about the suspicions regarding your father’s correspondence. But my department needs the duke’s patronage. He is a very influential man and not one to cross. They had let him know the situation and he insisted that I bring you safely back to England.’
There was a bleakness in his eyes that belied the calmness of his tone. ‘I saw both as my duty and I hold by that still. To do anything else would have been to connive at your ruin, Cleo. I could not leave you there and I could not simply abandon you to your own devices here in England—you have seen enough of society now to know that would be impossible.’
‘You lied to me by omission.’ He was hurting too and that only fuelled the bitterness she felt. Cleo clenched her hand and felt a seam in her tight satin glove split.
‘If I had told you the full truth, you would have tried to escape the ship. I might have lost you in some port and never found you again,’ Quin said.
‘You could have helped me. Listened to me. Was that story you told me about your birth, your father, all lies too?’
‘No, it was the truth.’ He was maintaining his expressionless, diplomat’s face and yet it seemed to her that she could see the nerves beneath the skin, the flow of the blood in every tiny capillary as if she was flaying him alive.
So much pain... Hurt him more. ‘Then you should understand what it means to be an outsider.’
‘I do not want to be an outsider,’ Quin said. ‘I want to make my own life within this society. I will be my own man and to hell with who my father is or is not.’ He took up his glass and drank. ‘My true father behaved dishonourably,’ he said as he set the glass down again. ‘I have undertaken to serve the government and the king as a diplomat and I will not behave dishonourably in that duty. To have helped you to your ruin would be wrong in every way—for you, for your grandfather, for the diplomatic service and its reputation.’
‘So my happiness, my trust...’ My heart. My love. ‘Those weigh like a feather in the scales against your honour. Of course they do.’ Of course. He does not love me, he does not know I love him, why should he ruin himself for me?
‘My honour is all I have. It is what I am.’ He said it softly, but the words were like chiselled stone.
‘And women do not understand male honour, do we? I made the mistake of confusing...friendship with whatever it actually was between us. I am not sure of the word, but I was your objective and you...you were both our hunter and our judge.’
‘I hope I was your friend,’ Quin said slowly. He seemed to be picking his way through the words as if something in there was sharp and dangerous. ‘I hope I still am. Can you tell me why you are afraid?’
He could see her fear? She had tried so hard to hide it.
‘Fear?’ Cleo stood up and set down her glass so sharply the fragile stem cracked. ‘I am not afraid of anything, my lord. Or perhaps I am. Yes, I am afraid of relying on others, of becoming weak. I can see that my fate is in my hands and mine alone and to repine about shattered trust or friendship that never was is foolish and weakening. The second dance is about to start. Shall we join it?’
‘As you wish.’ Quin stood. For a long moment she thought he would say more, but he merely offered her his arm and brushed aside the ferns so she could regain the dance floor.
* * *
‘I must say, this is promising. You have done better than I expected, Cleo.’ Her aunt surveyed the massed flowers decorating the drawing room. ‘Seven bouquets from gentlemen with whom you danced last night.’ She went from vase to vase inspecting cards.
‘Hmm. Willoughby, Axholme—the younger son unfortunately. Charles Bignor—hopeless, a complete fribble. Philpott, Drewe, Deverall.’
Quin sent me flowers?
‘Ah, this is excellent—Dryton. Now that is an alliance your grandfather would be most approving of.’
‘He has only danced once with me, Aunt. I am sure the flowers are the merest courtesy. I...did not like him very much.’
‘Hothouse orchids are never the merest courtesy, foolish girl!’ Her aunt seemed more amused at her ignorance than annoyed. ‘And what is there not to like, might I ask? He is a political ally of the duke, he has extensive lands, over thirty thousand a year, and I understand most silly girls find him good looking.’
He has hot eyes that seem to undress me and hands that wander just beyond the bounds of comfort and he is too smooth. And Quin does not like him.
‘Lord Dryton is a widower, with children.’
