A Night Like This (Smythe-Smith Quartet #2)(50)

“I suppose,” he said with a little shrug of concession. Then, with a cheeky quirk of his brows, he leaned forward and murmured, “Would it be improper of me to admit that I am inordinately flattered by your attention to the details of my face?”
Anne snorted out a laugh. “Improper and ludicrous.”
“It is true that I have never felt quite so colorful,” he said, with a clearly feigned sigh.
“You are a veritable rainbow,” she agreed. “I see red and . . . well, no orange and yellow, but certainly green and blue and violet.”
“You forgot indigo.”
“I did not,” she said, with her very best governess voice. “I have always found it to be a foolish addition to the spectrum. Have you ever actually seen a rainbow?”
“Once or twice,” he replied, looking rather amused by her rant.
“It’s difficult enough to note the difference between the blue and violet, much less find the indigo in between.”
He paused for a moment, then, lips twitching with humor, said, “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”
Anne pressed her own lips together, trying not to smile in return. “Indeed,” she finally said, then burst out laughing. It was the most ridiculous conversation, and so perfectly lovely at the same time.
Daniel laughed with her, and they both sat back as a maid came by with two steaming mugs of tea. Anne instantly put her hands around hers and sighed with pleasure as the warmth seeped through her skin.
Daniel took a sip, shivered as the hot liquid went down his throat, then sipped again. “I think I look very dashing,” he said, “all mottled and bruised. Perhaps I should start making up stories of how I was injured. Fighting with Marcus lacks all excitement.”
“Don’t forget the footpads,” she reminded him.
“And that,” he replied in a dry voice, “lacks all dignity.”
She smiled at that. It was a rare man who could poke fun at himself.
“What do you think?” he asked, turning as if to preen. “Shall I say I wrestled with a wild boar? Or perhaps fought off pirates with a machete?”
“Well, that depends,” she returned. “Did you have the machete or did the pirates?”
“Oh, the pirates, I should think. It’s far more impressive if I held them off with my bare hands.” He waved them about as if practicing some ancient Oriental technique.
“Stop,” she said, laughing. “Everyone is looking at you.”
He shrugged. “They would look, regardless. I haven’t been here in three years.”
“Yes, but they’ll think you a madman.”
“Ah, but I’m allowed to be eccentric.” He gave her a dashing half smile and let his eyebrows bob up and then down. “It’s one of the perks of the title.”
“Not the money and the power?”
“Well, those, too,” he admitted, “but right now I’m most enjoying the eccentricity. The bruises help the cause, don’t you think?”
She rolled her eyes, taking another sip of her tea.
“Perhaps a scar,” he mused, turning to present her with his cheek. “What do you think? Right along here. I could—”
But Anne did not hear the rest of his words. She only saw his hand, slicing through air from his temple to his chin. A long, furious diagonal, just like—
She saw it—George’s face as he ripped the bandages from his skin in his father’s study.
And she felt it, the awful plunge of the knife when it had gone through his skin.
She turned away quickly, trying to breathe. But she couldn’t. It was like a vise around her lungs, a great weight sitting on her chest. She was choking and drowning at the same time, desperate for air. Oh, dear God, why was this happening now? It had been years since she’d felt this kind of spontaneous terror. She’d thought she was past it.
“Anne,” Daniel said urgently, reaching across the table to take her hand. “What can be wrong?”
It was as if his touch snapped some sort of constricting band, because her entire body suddenly spasmed with a deep, convulsive breath. The black edges that had been squeezing down on her vision shimmered and dissolved, and very slowly, she felt her body returning to normal.
“Anne,” he said again, but she didn’t look at him. She did not want to see the concern on his face. He had been joking, she knew that perfectly well. How on earth would she explain such an overreaction?
“The tea,” she said, hoping he did not remember that she had already put down her mug when he’d made his comment. “I think—” She coughed, and she was not faking it. “I think it went down the wrong way.”
He watched her face intently. “Are you certain?”
“Or maybe it was too hot,” she said, her shoulders quivering in a nervous little shrug. “But I’m almost recovered now, I assure you.” She smiled, or at least tried to. “It’s terribly embarrassing, really.”
“Can I help you in any way?”
“No, of course not.” She fanned herself. “My goodness, I’m suddenly quite warm. Are you?”
He shook his head, his eyes never leaving her face.
“The tea,” she said, trying to sound bright and cheery. “As I said, it’s quite hot.”
“It is.”
She swallowed. He saw through her act, she was sure of it. He did not know what the truth was, just that she was not saying it. And for the first time since she’d left home eight years earlier, she felt a pang of remorse over her silence. She had no obligation to share her secrets with this man, and yet, here she was, feeling evasive and guilty.