of being so often surrounded that I find a great deal of peace in being alone."
"But not lonely?"
"No," she said. "Not here." Only sometimes , she could have added but did not. It was more often that she felt as one out of step in the middle of a dressing room filled with admirers than she did in here. Standing onstage, accepting the accolades of an approving audience, was on occasion an experience of profound and disturbing loneliness. That admission was difficult enough to make to herself. It was not the sort of thing one confessed to a stranger.
And he was a stranger, no matter that he seemed oddly familiar to her. That was the stuff of fanciful dreams, she chided herself. In truth, she had taken a risk by inviting him here, though not as great a risk as it may have seemed to the uninitiated. This was more in the fashion of a calculated risk. If she was correct, then the viscount was biding his time as well, taking his direction from her. If she was wrong, then then she would accustom herself to the fact that she must never see him again. It might come to that end anyway.
Southerton went to the fireplace and stoked the coals, making them give up a little more heat and light. "I was uncertain if you would accept my invitation," he said. "That I should then find myself in a position to accept yours was most unexpected."
"You were clever to send Doobin. You would not have reached me otherwise."
"My thinking exactly ." Without conscious thought he moved his jaw sideways, the gesture reminiscent of working out the kink she had put there on their first encounter. He turned more fully in her direction and found her gaze had narrowed on his chin. "It no longer hurts," he told her.
"There's a faint bruise."
"Yes. But no scarring." He touched the corner of his mouth, where her earrings had cut him. "Pity, that. My sister says it would have improved my standing in society to have a scar just there."
One of India Parr's brows lifted in a perfect arch. "You did not believe her, I hope."
"Certainly not. She is my sister, after all, and given to the worst sort of encouragement and wild tales if she thinks it will serve in humbling me."
Since he said this with a certain amount of affection in his voice and a gleam in his eye, India accepted that Southerton found his sister's attempts not at all provoking. "Had she told you a scar would have improved your countenance," she said,"you may have depended upon her word. But your standing in society? I think not. It is not as if such a scar was earned at the point of a rapier. There is not much standing to be gained from an encounter with a lady's fist, especially when one expressly asked for the delivery of the very same."
Southerton stared at her. "Improve my countenance?" he said after a moment, as if it were the only part of her speech that mattered. "Do you truly think so?"
He delivered these questions with such perfect self-absorption that India found herself wondering if she had mistaken the man. She held his gaze, searching for some crack that would indicate a facade. There was none. What she saw instead was a look of keen, penetrating intelligence, unwavering in its return regard, so that she could not help but be touched by it. "Indeed," she replied in dry accents. "A scar is just the thing."
Southerton laughed. "I believe you would delight in wounding me."
"I think what I should like is making the acquaintance of your sister."
The viscount's smile faded. There was an imperceptible straightening to his figure, more an absence of the relaxed mode he had been enjoying than an alteration in his posture.
India did not fail to miss the change in her guest. She was embarrassed by the wistfulness that had crept into her own voice when she had imagined an introduction to his sister. No, that would not be possible. Not at all. "Forgive me," she said softly. "I spoke without thinking. I did not mean"
The scratching at the door interrupted India, and supper was wheeled into the
"But not lonely?"
"No," she said. "Not here." Only sometimes , she could have added but did not. It was more often that she felt as one out of step in the middle of a dressing room filled with admirers than she did in here. Standing onstage, accepting the accolades of an approving audience, was on occasion an experience of profound and disturbing loneliness. That admission was difficult enough to make to herself. It was not the sort of thing one confessed to a stranger.
And he was a stranger, no matter that he seemed oddly familiar to her. That was the stuff of fanciful dreams, she chided herself. In truth, she had taken a risk by inviting him here, though not as great a risk as it may have seemed to the uninitiated. This was more in the fashion of a calculated risk. If she was correct, then the viscount was biding his time as well, taking his direction from her. If she was wrong, then then she would accustom herself to the fact that she must never see him again. It might come to that end anyway.
Southerton went to the fireplace and stoked the coals, making them give up a little more heat and light. "I was uncertain if you would accept my invitation," he said. "That I should then find myself in a position to accept yours was most unexpected."
"You were clever to send Doobin. You would not have reached me otherwise."
"My thinking exactly ." Without conscious thought he moved his jaw sideways, the gesture reminiscent of working out the kink she had put there on their first encounter. He turned more fully in her direction and found her gaze had narrowed on his chin. "It no longer hurts," he told her.
"There's a faint bruise."
"Yes. But no scarring." He touched the corner of his mouth, where her earrings had cut him. "Pity, that. My sister says it would have improved my standing in society to have a scar just there."
One of India Parr's brows lifted in a perfect arch. "You did not believe her, I hope."
"Certainly not. She is my sister, after all, and given to the worst sort of encouragement and wild tales if she thinks it will serve in humbling me."
Since he said this with a certain amount of affection in his voice and a gleam in his eye, India accepted that Southerton found his sister's attempts not at all provoking. "Had she told you a scar would have improved your countenance," she said,"you may have depended upon her word. But your standing in society? I think not. It is not as if such a scar was earned at the point of a rapier. There is not much standing to be gained from an encounter with a lady's fist, especially when one expressly asked for the delivery of the very same."
Southerton stared at her. "Improve my countenance?" he said after a moment, as if it were the only part of her speech that mattered. "Do you truly think so?"
He delivered these questions with such perfect self-absorption that India found herself wondering if she had mistaken the man. She held his gaze, searching for some crack that would indicate a facade. There was none. What she saw instead was a look of keen, penetrating intelligence, unwavering in its return regard, so that she could not help but be touched by it. "Indeed," she replied in dry accents. "A scar is just the thing."
Southerton laughed. "I believe you would delight in wounding me."
"I think what I should like is making the acquaintance of your sister."
The viscount's smile faded. There was an imperceptible straightening to his figure, more an absence of the relaxed mode he had been enjoying than an alteration in his posture.
India did not fail to miss the change in her guest. She was embarrassed by the wistfulness that had crept into her own voice when she had imagined an introduction to his sister. No, that would not be possible. Not at all. "Forgive me," she said softly. "I spoke without thinking. I did not mean"
The scratching at the door interrupted India, and supper was wheeled into the
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