The stab of guilt transformed to an ache in his chest. She made to walk past him back to the lodge, and before he could stop himself he reached out a hand to grasp her arm, arresting her step beside him.

Mademoiselle Cadeaux looked up at him, her dark eyes full of surprise. He could smell the earth on her, mingling with the scent of roses and… what was it? Lavender? This close he could see the delicate flush of her cheeks from the cold morning air. It deepened under his gaze. His eyes dropped to her mouth, taking in the rise and fall of her slightly parted lips.

He instinctually dropped his head an inch. Stopped. Recognising the overwhelming desire he had to kiss her. The realisation shocked him into releasing her, yet he didn’t move away.

Had she just shivered before he let her go?

He remained close enough to her that his legs felt the press of her skirts. Something indefinable was passing between them in this moment and he knew it was transitory. Soon enough it would be broken. Before it was, he needed to apologise.

“Forgive me,” he said huskily. “My fear has made me bullish, and you have borne the brunt of it.”

He reached for her hand, and traced a thumb lightly over her bandage that still covered the burn. “Not just fear for me.”

Her brow puckered, and her eyes widened in comprehension. What was that expression on her fair face? One of surprise mingled with disbelief?

His fingers found her wrist and continued tracing their random pattern. There, she did it again—she shivered. He had not been this close to anyone in a long time. The desire to be known, to be understood and cared for, he thought he had grown past, but it seemed those feelings had just been lying dormant.

“You need not fear for me,” she said, a hint of a waver in her voice. “I only repeat my last plea to you, that you stay away from me.”

“I am finding that hard to do,” Avers replied honestly.

“You despise me and then you wish to protect me. I find you contrary, Your Grace.” She said the last part quietly, attempting to escape his gaze by looking to the path behind him.

She was considering walking away from him again.

He sighed, releasing her hand, and stepped back to put an appropriate distance between them.

“I cannot… I carry a wound that runs deeply, given to me by the woman you quizzed me about at Madame Pertuis’ last salon. I have not found a way to heal just yet. When I am pressed on it, I am afraid I do not show my best. I am not a… a whole man. I have been broken and I cannot find the way to become whole again.” His honesty, his rawness, shocked even himself.

This woman had a way of drawing from him the infection that had festered in his heart since it had been broken. While she lanced it, the hurt came out, but he was starting to feel relief too, as the pressure released. As though acknowledging it somehow gave it less power to define him.

“I am not your healing.”

Her blunt words caught him off-guard. She no longer avoided his gaze. Her eyes found his and conveyed a frankness matching her words.

“I didn’t—” he began, but she cut him off.

“What you speak about is unforgiveness and it is the enemy of contentment. No other person is the elixir for that ailment but God.”

“You are an expert in the matter?” he said, dropping into his usual provoking tone as a defence against the painful rawness of what they spoke.

She raised a single brow at him and he felt the challenge. She would not be giving anything away.

“You’re suggesting I must forgive the one who broke my heart?”

“I am not suggesting you must do anything.”

Avers chuckled softly. This woman continually surprised him. “But you advise it?”

“I know that unforgiveness is disfiguring to the soul, and before you throw my position back at me, I also know the irony of speaking about my soul when you believe me a common mistress.”

Believe me. That was an odd turn of phrase.

“You have no wish to walk a different path?”

It was her turn to laugh, but the sound was maudlin. “Consider yourself blessed to have been born a noble and a man. You have options where others do not.” She looked past his shoulder again. “We should go back to the house before you are missed, or we are seen alone together.”

He didn’t want this interview to end.

“May I escort you? It is the least I can do after kicking you.”

“Yes, it is.”

The atmosphere between them lightened. Avers offered her his arm but she shook her head.

“I believe it would be prudent to return to the house separately.”

Avers was disappointed, but she was right.

“A wise choice. You are not a fool, Mademoiselle Cadeaux.”

He saw the corner of her mouth crook upwards. Her eyes twinkled as she inclined her head in acknowledgment of the compliment.

“Thank you, Your Grace. I wish I could say the same about you.”

Avers laughed, watching her turn on her heel and make her way back towards the lodge’s south side. He waited a short while, taking a turn around the garden and going over all the words they had shared, his amusement dying down into thoughtfulness.

He had wanted to kiss Mademoiselle Cadeaux… That was not a desire he had felt in some time. And the more she spoke to him—the more wisdom that poured from her lips and candour that she operated with—that feeling had strengthened. But she had pushed him away. She had made it clear she was not the solution to his discontent and that action made him admire her all the more.

Unforgiveness is disfiguring to the soul.

The words hung clearly at the forefront of his mind. They deserved careful thought. But as he turned into the lodge’s entrance, he resumed his alter-ego and made ready to play his part. Deciphering the mixture of emotions Mademoiselle Cadeaux had stirred within him would have to wait.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Duke’s question echoed back and forth across Emilie’s mind. You have no wish to walk a different path?

She scoffed aloud as she skirted the shrubbery edging the walls of the lodge and turned into its south entrance. It was a boot room, designed for the return of the men from hunting, with large flagstones making up the floor, various pegs in the walls for the hanging of hunting gear, and a broad oak trestle table running down its centre. She placed the basket of cut roses on the table while she changed out of her dirty boots and into silk mules appropriate for inside.

It was easy for the Duke of Tremaine to ask such a question of her. His ignorance was understandable when he enjoyed the security of his position. His place in life had been on firm foundations from the beginning. Emilie had been born clinging to an uneven surface, forced to carve out her security, making footholds above the treacherous waves of life below.

Yet… the Duke’s words ran around her mind again. She was choosing to remain in her current position with the Comte’s suit hanging over her.

Was it a choice?

Emilie’s standing felt more precarious than ever and it was not only herself she must think of. There was also Mademoiselle Saint-Val Cadette and those who depended on her in the Île de la Cité. She was staying where she was for the moment to protect others and herself until she could find a way out. Piece by piece, the Comte had taken away her freedom. The final piece was still hers, but it was clear Emilie was nearly out of time.