There was the same look in his eyes at times now, as if he were reassessing her. As if they were still in Mexico.
Mexico!
She inhaled sharply, so that Pierre, who had been scanning the crowd for the lovely Lorna Prendergast—the American girl whose father was a friend of Steve’s and his partner, Sam Murdock, and who had accompanied Steve to London with her mother—turned to glance at her with surprise.
“What is the matter, Virginie?”
Quickly, she hid her sudden apprehension, for Pierre would only dismiss her misgivings if she voiced them.
“Nothing. Oh, except that I read this morning in the Times that there is trouble in Mexico between Lerdo and Díaz again. I had thought—hoped—that perhaps we could return soon, so the children can grow up with their heritage.”
“Leave England with the children? What does your husband have to say about that? Now that he is ambassador—a farce in my opinion—isn’t his presence required in London?”
“Oh, Pierre, I am certain that he will not stay here long. When has he ever remained in one place for long? Only Mexico has ever held him for any length of time, and then only because of his grandfather.” She tapped her folded fan lightly against her cousin’s arm, a playful smile on her lips masking the sudden narrowing of her eyes. “But you would know what Steve plans to do, would you not?”
“How would I know? Your husband does not confide in me, Virginie.”
“Does he not? I thought perhaps he spoke to you of his plans—of a possible return to Mexico.”
A flush darkened Pierre’s fair face, and he shook his head. “Do not involve me in your marital discussions, for you know how I feel. My God, you have only been back a month and already you are talking of leaving here!”
“But London is not my home. Pierre, I want to go home again, back to Mexico with my children, where they can grow up in the warm sunshine and life is less complicated.”
“Your life will never be uncomplicated,” he replied bluntly. “You will not allow it. I suppose you intend to take the children and leave if your husband does not agree? Or will you leave them behind again, as you have done far too often in the past?”
For a moment she was silent, stung by his accusation and aware of the truth behind it. Then she said quietly, “I have no intention of trying to take them away from their father, nor do I wish to leave them again. Oh, you may look at me skeptically and I don’t blame you, but it’s the truth. I’m tired of it all, tired of the uncertainty, of not knowing if he loves me or if I will ever see him again. I want a home, Pierre, can you understand that? A home of my own, where I can watch my children grow up and know that my husband will be there at my side. I think that it’s all I have ever wanted, but I never knew it until recently.”
“Then you should tell that to your husband, not to me.”
“Yes. You are right, of course. I fully intend to do just that.”
Pierre’s expression softened and he managed a smile that looked faintly rueful. “Virginie, petite cousine, of course you will do what you must. Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. Pierre—”
Lorna Prendergast, a spoiled, willful girl much too certain of her youthful beauty, and far too enamored of Steve, chose that moment to appear at Pierre’s elbow, her lovely face set into a mask of polite inquiry. Auburn hair gleamed under the glow of crystalline light, and her tawny eyes were frankly curious and malicious as she greeted Ginny with a smile.
“How generous of Mr. Morgan to allow you to stay with the children for a time,” she said sweetly as she tucked her hand into the crook of Pierre’s arm with a proprietary air, “for I am certain you must have missed them a great deal.”
“Yes, I did. But then, Steve doesn’t want any of us to be parted again.” Ginny lifted a brow, her smile coolly polite as she added, “I would have preferred staying at home with them tonight, but he insisted I accompany him. I’m sure you realize how forceful Steve can be when he’s determined to have his own way.”
Her implication had the desired effect; crimson stains marred the ivory purity of Lorna’s face and her lips twisted as if she had just bitten into a sour lemon. Poor Pierre wore the look of a man struck with a pole. He wavered, his eyes beseeching as he looked from Ginny to Miss Prendergast, but she took no pity on her cousin.
“I am certain Pierre can tell you how difficult a time it has been for our family lately, Miss Prendergast, and how relieved we all are to be together again after so much time apart.”
Lorna’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but her smile recovered. She had the air of a woman accustomed to having her every whim granted, for whom a refusal would not be tolerated, and being ignored would be unbearable.
“Yes, there must be much the two of you have to settle between you, especially after the scandalous painting of you that was recently hung in the Royal Academy—or does your husband know about that yet?”
“Your curiosity is misplaced, Miss Prendergast. And quite impertinent. If I thought my cousin susceptible to your self-indulgent charms, I would be greatly concerned.”
Lorna glanced up at Pierre, who looked nearly desperate with discomfort. She tapped him lightly with her folded fan. “Why, Monsieur Dumont, I am grieved that you think of me so little.”
“In truth, Miss Prendergast, you have been all I have thought of since meeting you,” Pierre replied gallantly, and he flicked a warning glance at Ginny
