The Devil's Web by Mary Balogh Read Free Book Online

spellbound throughout his recital.”
    If anyone had said those very words to her, she would have been hard put to it to keep a straight face. All she needed to add was a titter. And then she heard it, a moment after the words were spoken.
    â€œThe pianoforte is not my favorite instrument,” he said.
    His voice always surprised her. One did not expect a man of such vivid and almost harsh looks to be so soft-spoken or to have such a cultured voice. But it angered her, too. He never had known how to conduct polite conversation.
    â€œWell, then,” she said, opening her fan and fluttering it before her face, “perhaps you will enjoy the soprano better in the second half. Or do you not enjoy sopranos, either?”
    He raised his eyebrows and looked down at her. “Not particularly,” he said. “I would prefer a contralto voice.”
    And she was left staring at him, while conversation flowed around them. He made no attempt to continue their own conversation. Memory stabbed at her. He had always been this way, looking at her with unconcealed contempt and showing his scorn for her conversation by not participating in it beyond monosyllables.
    How could she ever have persuaded herself that she loved him? How could she have convinced herself that for a short while at Edmund’s ball he had returned that love?
How could she have so humiliated herself as to pine for him after he had gone?
    She turned sharply away. “I think the concert is about to resume,” she said to Anna. “We should find our way back to our seats.” She smiled at Jean Cameron and raised a hand in farewell to her brother and sister-in-law. She ignored James Purnell.
    And James bowed and smiled at a bright-eyed Anna and watched her turn to make her way through the crush of people toward the other side of the room again. Or rather, to be quite honest with himself, he watched her companion.
    She was more beautiful than she had been. Indeed, she had never been an unusually lovely woman. It had always been the glow and vitality in her face that had drawn all eyes her way. But she was that rare kind of woman who grows more beautiful with age and the development of character. He had felt his breath catch in his throat when he had finally looked full into her face from close quarters.
    And he was as awkward with her as he had ever been.
Unable to think of anything witty or profound to say to
her, and taking refuge in surliness and silence. He had always been thus with her, and when she had flared up at him on a few occasions when they had been together at Amberley that summer, then he had lashed out at her, accusing her of an empty-headedness that could find entertainment only in meaningless chatter.
    He had even convinced himself that it was true. And could still do so, he supposed. Her behavior that afternoon in her mother’s drawing room had been loud and silly. Her remarks of a few minutes before had been mundane. But he need not have answered as he had. He might have agreed with her for the sake of civility.
    He found it possible to be civil with all the world, it seemed, except with Madeline. And except with his father, perhaps. He glanced uneasily Lord Beckworth’s way. They had scarcely spoken since his return. And he still had not decided whether it was not better that way.
    â€œThey were very civil, were they not, James?” Jean was saying from beside him. Two spots of color high on her cheekbones gave her a glow of prettiness.
    â€œAnd why would they not be?” he asked, his eyes twinkling down at her, “unless they were jealous of your loveliness, of course.”
    Her face lit up with merriment. “You say the silliest things,” she said. “Miss Carrington is very amiable, James.
And Lady Madeline is quite lovely. I am amazed that she would condescend to take notice of me at all. She is with that splendidly handsome officer, is she not?”
    â€œIt would seem so,” he