Page 19 of The Duke's Auctioned Virgin
“Your turn,” she said, because the silence was growing heavy and she needed it lighter before it settled into something she could not manage.
She had spent three years in heavy silences. She knew how much they weighed. She knew how they pressed in from the sides until the room felt small.
This was not that kind of silence. This was the kind that ensued when someone understood you. And that was worse in its own way, because understanding was harder to defend against than cruelty.
Edward seemed to know it too. He straightened up and cleared his throat.
They traded a few more questions. He asked her about a thing that had hands but could not clap. A clock. She asked him about a thing you could catch but could not throw. A cold. He got that one wrong on purpose. She could tell because he paused for too long, and his eyes gave him away.
“You let me win that one,” she accused.
“I did not.”
“You did. Your face changes when you are thinking. It goes still. When you already know the answer, your eyebrow moves first.”
He stared at her. “Ye noticed that.”
“I notice everything. Gordon taught me that. Pay attention or pay the price.”
He said nothing for a moment. Then: “That’s a harsh way to learn.”
“It’s an effective one.”
“Hm.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Ye have been asking me things for the past hour.”
“Something real. How did you get that name? The Hound.”
He went quiet. Now it wasn’t the comfortable kind of quiet. She had touched something.
“That,” he said after a moment, “is a story for another day.”
“You owe me an honest answer. Those were the rules.”
“I owe ye an honest answer to a riddle. That is not a riddle. That is a confession.” He looked her right in the eye. “Ask me again when ye know me better. I will tell ye then.”
She studied his face. He meant it. She let it go.
After that, they stopped keeping score.
“Tell me about the places you have been,” she demanded. “The real stories, not the ones they tell in clubs.”
He looked at her sideways. “Vienna,” he began. “There’s a church with a gold roof. The whole thing. Top to bottom.”
“I fell off a horse into a duck pond when I was twelve,” she revealed. “Refused to ride again for a week.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled.
“Caroline’s wedding,” she added. “November. Bridget put dried lavender in her hair because nothing else was in season. The vicar was sneezing so hard he could barely finish the vows. The whole church smelled like a wardrobe.”
“Constantinople,” he said. “There’s a market where you can buy a dagger, a parrot, and a forged letter from the Pope.”
“Did you buy one?” she asked, leaning forward.
“Didn’t need the letter.”
