Wicked Loving Lies. Rosemary Rogers

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      10

      “But why should I be, as you say, ‘careful’ with Philip? Why? What is wrong with him? He is a gentleman, you have said so yourself!”

      Turning away from the window, Edmée-Amélie made a moue that was half-playful, half-dismayed.

      “Ah no, chérie! I did not mean to say that there is anything wrong with this excellent young man, far from it. But you see—” she looked into her niece’s rebellious golden eyes and sighed, choosing her words carefully this time “—it is you that I worry about, Marisa. Looking at you now, so chic, so pretty, it has been difficult to remember what a sheltered life you have led all these years. This Philip is the first young man you have flirted with, is he not? Yes, he is very handsome, his manners very charming, and you look upon him as the gallant chevalier who rescued you, oui? But you must not begin to mistake gratitude for—for something else. Soon you will be meeting other young men, all just as handsome and dashing and—more suitable.”

      “Suitable!” Marisa burst in, her eyes flashing, but her aunt only shook her head warningly.

      “You do not like this word? Ah, I remember when I was told of this English earl, what we would call a count here, and was told how rich and suitable a match he would make for me, I, too, shook my head. However, if I had stayed in France and married the penniless young man I thought I loved, I would have gone to the guillotine. Philip Sinclair is a pleasant young man, but his father is only a baron and a gambler—a member of the Carleton House set. There is not much money there, only wildness. In fact one of the reasons Mr. Sinclair is in Paris at the moment was to pay court to a certain heiress, also English. Lady Arabella Marlowe is here with her formidable mama to see Paris and improve her French. And tout de suite, Lord Anthony scraped up the money to dispatch his son here, also. He is expected to make a rich marriage, to please not only his father but his uncle as well. You comprehend?”

      Marisa’s eyes, beginning to shine with tears, looked stormy. “No! How could you expect me to? If Philip was in love with another woman, he would have told me so—he is honest and kind! And—and he spends almost all of his time here, because he wishes to see me. I cannot believe that he would be so cold-blooded as to allow himself to be forced into a loveless alliance merely because his family wants such a match. He—”

      “Ah, yes, he is bedazzled by you, ma petite. That much is easy to see. But for how long? Soon he will begin to think guiltily of his duty—and you may be sure that if his uncle who is the head of the family hears what’s been going on, he will waste no time calling for his return to England, and then what? Do you think he will be brave enough to take you with him? What will he live on? Be sensible, my love; that is all I am asking of you. Flirt, yes and enjoy yourself! But don’t be foolish enough to lose your heart.”

      Later, when she had retired to her room to fight back the treacherous gale of weeping that threatened to engulf her, Marisa could not help feeling as if a heavy stone had been placed over her heart.

      Her aunt had meant well, she was sure of that. But oh, the humiliation of realizing that she had let her growing feelings for Philip, and her delight in his company, show so obviously! It was true; she had not learned to flirt or to hide her emotions. Did she love Philip? She didn’t know. And certainly he had never overstepped the bounds of convention in their talks together. But he did like her, he did! And it wasn’t fair that his father and this powerful uncle of his should be allowed to plan and order his whole life. As for this English heiress, this Lady Arabella….

      Marisa’s hands clenched into small fists at her sides as she began to pace angrily about her room. Did she not have enough spirit to refuse a suitor who did not love her and was forced to pay his addresses to her for the dowry she would bring him?

      ‘I would not do it,’ Marisa thought, and then the recollection of her reckless flight and its consequences made her face burn hotly with shame and anger. Suddenly, unbidden, the image of Dominic Challenger’s dark, mocking face rose up to haunt her, and she remembered without wanting to the feeling of his hands on her body and his body driving into hers. Hateful! Philip would never treat her like that: he was gentle and tender and respectful.

      But if Philip knew—would he still respect her? He was English, not French, and everyone knew the English were rigidly conventional when it came to women. She could not bear the thought of telling him and watching his face change.

      Her thoughts went round and round. ‘But if he found out that I was an heiress?’ Then perhaps, if he loved her enough, it would not matter. But by now her father might be so angry that he had disowned her; her Aunt Edmée had suggested she should write to him and tell him she was safe, СКАЧАТЬ