Page 63 of Gentleman Jim

St. Clare slammed his glass down on the table. “I told you that you shouldn’t have come here.”

Maggie knew she shouldn’t have come. It was reckless and wild. A very real risk to her reputation. Worse than that, it was unfair to Bessie (who Maggie had told), and doubly unfair to Jane (who Maggie hadn’t).

But Maggie hadn’t cared about burdening her servant, or keeping secrets from her friend, not when St. Clare’s well-being hung in the balance.

Nicholas’s well-being.

They regarded each other across the short distance of his bedchamber like two adversaries on the verge of battle. A pulsing heat throbbed between them. A palpable tension that was as much a product of hurt and anger as desire.

“You lied to me,” she said.

His gaze was locked with hers, his heavy-lidded eyes almost sullen. “I know.”

“You made me doubt myself. When all the while—”

“I know.” Bitterness and frustration sounded in his voice, along with a raw edge of genuine regret. He raked a hand through his golden hair. His tousled locks, usually combed into meticulous order, stood half on end.

She’d never seen him less poised. Less in control of himself. “Why did you do it?” she asked.

He turned away from her for a moment, his countenance half-hidden in the shadows cast from a branch of guttering candles on his bedside table.

And she felt it, the tremor that went through his body. The anger and frustration and soul-deep remorse. The roiling conflict that warred within him between the past and the present.

“Is it so terrible to recall it? To remember who you were?” She took a step toward him. “Who we were to each other?”

He shook his head, his face taut with some inexplicable emotion.

“I knew it was you. All I wanted was the truth. For you to acknowledge—”

“Acknowledge what?” The question was practically a snarl. “I never expected to see you again. How was I to know you’d be here? That you’d come to me as you did that night?”

“You must have been surprised.”

He made a choked noise. It might have been a laugh. “You’ve developed a talent for understatement.”

“And you’ve developed a skill for hiding your true feelings.”

“Whatever skill I had has left me. I am as you see me now, without a shred of my armor.” He poured himself another drink. “You’ve taken it all from me.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “You can hardly blame me for your present condition. It wasn’t I who—”

“No. It’s my own fault. I have no control at all where you’re concerned. I never have.” He drained his glass. “You should go,” he said. “I’m not myself.”

She gave him a wry look.

“I mean—”

“I know what you mean. You’re upset with yourself for acting so impulsively on my behalf. And you’re in pain, I suspect, which accounts for your drinking.”

He scrubbed his face with his hands. “You have to go,” he said again. “I mean it, Maggie.”

“Undoubtedly. But first things first.” She came closer, backing him against his bed. “Let me have another look at your wound. A proper one this time.”

“Haven’t you seen enough?” he growled at her.

“Sit down.” Her pulse was fluttering madly, but her voice was under admirable control. “No more nonsense.”

Muttering something that sounded like an oath, he grudgingly sank back onto the edge of his mattress. His hands were braced at his sides, his feet planted firmly on the floor.