Any comments had stuck in her throat, the desire to blurt out questions overriding her appreciation of the beautiful, square-cut emerald that looked so large on her small hand. She had been too cowardly then to ask the questions that were always on her mind, but now?
“Steve, it’s getting very late. We aren’t expected to stay here all night, are we?”
“Tired of the wealthy elite already?” His mouth crooked in a teasing smile. “You’ve always looked quite at home with the aristocrats, my love.”
“Yes, I’m sure I have, but tonight I find them boring. I do get tired of being stared at and gossiped about, and I see little difference between these people and others who feel free to pry where they’re not wanted.”
Over his shoulder, she saw Francesca di Paoli dancing with Lord Grayson, her dark head bent close as if hanging upon his every word. Languid eyes lifted, clashed with Ginny’s, her smile infuriatingly confident before she was swept away in the steps of the dance.
“Or be where they’re not wanted. What did you tell her, Steve?”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand, and shrugged.
“’Cesca? I told her that I was going to dance with my wife.” He moved effortlessly, taking her with him across the floor, his steps moving them closer to the door. His hand on her back was warm, firm. “After supper, we’ll make our farewells to our hosts and I’ll have the carriage brought around. The problem with these affairs is that they last too damned long.”
“And are too crowded, perhaps.”
His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “Yes, perhaps it is getting a bit crowded here. Too many gossips.”
“And old lovers.”
His hand tightened, fingers pressing into her skin, a hard reminder. “Let’s keep this civilized, shall we?”
Ginny bit her lip, angry at herself for bringing up his former relationship with Francesca. It was hardly the way to reconcile, if she couldn’t even control her unruly tongue!
So much had changed between them, so many old hurts and suspicions still had the power to destroy them if they allowed them. Could they get through all this?
The past month had been so…strained, as if they were strangers living under the same roof, sharing a love for two children but still feeling their way cautiously in their own relationship. There had been no discussion between them, no disagreements. And no resolutions.
Later, she decided, a mechanical smile on her face as she felt the curious gazes on them, I will confront Steve. I’ll risk it all—my pride and my heart. Will he see that I really want nothing more than to be with him and our children, to make a new life together?
Yes. It had been a month, far too long to continue as they were. Tonight when they were alone, she would be very direct and ask Steve what he planned. It was a new thing, to contemplate honest conversation between them, a discussion that did not involve screaming accusations or snarled insults.
Yes. She would talk to him, would bare her soul and tell him that she loved him, ask him if they could soon return to Mexico with their children and start a life together all over again.
4
It was late when they arrived at the house that Steve had leased in a fashionable section of London, one of the comfortable houses on Bruton Street that were not ostentatious but spacious and welcoming. Pink sandstone gleamed in the pale glow of the moon that peeked from behind swirling wisps of cloud, dimly illuminating the street as their carriage rolled to a halt. A gas lamp sputtered fitfully against the shadows.
Midsummer was usually warm in London, but tonight it was cool, and Ginny pulled her silk shawl up around her shoulders as she descended from the carriage and went into the house. Small pools of lamplight gleamed on black-and-white tile floors of the entrance hall, and out of the shadows stepped the maid to welcome them.
“You are up late, Berthilde,” Ginny said with a slight frown. “Are the children all right?”
The tiny woman built like a sparrow nodded as she took Ginny’s silk shawl. “Oui, madame. It is just that Laura woke and the lamps were out, and Madame Dupree asked me to fetch her some warm milk to calm her.”
“Another nightmare?” Steve started toward the stairs.
Ginny followed, lifting her skirts in a whispery rustle of satin as she tried to keep up with his long strides. Feet clad in emerald satin the same shade as her gown skimmed up the stairs, but Steve took the stairs two at a time, and she was breathless by the time they reached the nursery on the second floor. A soft breeze belled lace curtains over open windows. The lights were on and bright, revealing a tousle-haired Laura sitting up in bed and Madame Dupree trying to coax her to lie down. The nurse turned to Steve, exasperation in her eyes.
“She is quite all right, Monsieur Morgan,” she said briskly, “except that she is stubborn to a fault. She refuses to go back to sleep unless you are here. It is not a trait to encourage in the child, and I suggest that you—”
“Madame Dupree, I suggest that you close that window and then go back to your room. I will take care of my daughter now. If you have any more suggestions, you may make them to your next employer.”
Madame Dupree grasped his meaning immediately, and her mouth closed with an audible snap. Wisely, she made no other comment, but went to close the window and then left the room.
Laura had quieted immediately upon seeing her father, and dimpled as she smiled up at him. “You are very late, Papa. Was the party nice?”
“You little imp, what are you doing awake at this hour? Was it the
