Free Miss Antiqua's Adventure by Fran Baker Page B

clock tolled loudly. Vincent studied her with an expression so odd, Antiqua first colored, then went whiter than her gown. When he finally spoke, however, he merely said, “I am glad to hear it,” in a voice without inflection.
    A servant wafted in to set a fruit tart before her. Feverishly, she wondered just what she had said wrong. There was nothing to be learned from Vincent’s face for he was once again as collected as ever. Her only course was to brazen it out.
    With impatience, she pushed her dessert aside and, the instant the servant again vanished, inquired in what she hoped was a casual manner, “Have you something against Mr. Allen? You didn’t look at all pleased to learn of our friendship.”
    “I am only sorry that your particular friend cannot be at our wedding.” He sipped his wine in a leisurely fashion, then looked from his glass to her face. “By the way, my dear, does Balstone know of this friendship of yours?”
    She eyed him warily, suspecting a trick, but unsure which way the trap lay. “Why, no,” she said slowly. “Should he?”
    He smiled as if at a joke. “I would have only thought that as Balstone and William Allen are one and the same, he would have been apprised of your close friendship.”
    Her mouth worked several times without emitting a sound. At last she took refuge in anger, realizing that he must have known all along she was lying and had led her on for his own amusement. “How—how dare you!” she sputtered.
    “Do not fret, Brown-eyes,” he rejoined in his contemptibly cool way. “We can still arrange for your dear friend, Miss Sullivan, to be present when we are wed. We shall journey to Dover in the morning and be married there.”
    “Kindly rid yourself of the notion that I’ll be marrying you,” Antiqua said flatly. “I shall not. Not ever! What is more, I think you are—are utterly abominable!”
    Her chair was sent flying back and she was on her feet. Vincent watched her stand quivering, then slowly rose to face her. “And as you, my little love, are given to play-acting and story-telling, we shall make a fine pair. Hold me in aversion, if you will. It makes no odds, Brown-eyes, for tomorrow you will be given the protection of my name, whether you wish for it or no.”
    She whirled to leave, but her wrist was entrapped by a strong hand. She stared at it wide-eyed, feeling the brand of his bare touch travel up her arm like heated sparks.
    “Come, Antiqua, if you are in some trouble, or have some problem, do not hesitate to tell me. We could deal well enough together if you could bring yourself to confide in me.”
    This was it, she realized. This was his attempt to cozen her into telling him about Allen, the packet and everything. And gazing into those beautiful blue eyes, she was tempted, dear God in heaven, she was tempted to tell him whatever he wished to know.
    “I have nothing whatever to confide in you, sir,” she said in a shaking voice. “If you will have the kindness now to release me?”
    Vincent’s grip tightened. “If you cannot bring yourself to be a confiding wife, my sweet, may I advise that in future you strive at least to be an honest one? I will not tolerate falsehoods and I strongly suggest that you remember that.”
    She stood glaring at him, hating herself for wanting to throw herself into his arms, hating him more because of it. After a tense moment which Antiqua thought she could not endure, Vincent at last freed her. She remained immobile, her eyes refusing to take in the red marks encircling her fine-boned wrist. Then, speechless, she twisted and fled to the door.
    “Antiqua.”
    He hadn’t raised his voice, but the directive was still there in his hard tone. She stopped and turned to look at him.
    “Do not keep me waiting in the morning,” he warned her.
    Antiqua found she had no voice with which to inform Mr. Vincent that he would be waiting until a certain hot spot froze over, so she exited wordlessly.
     

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