THE photographs were fascinating. Far more so than Marianne had expected.
‘This is quite remarkable. Remarkable,’ the professor mumbled. ‘Everything completely shut away…’
‘Yes,’ Seb agreed, moving to stand behind him. ‘Until the renovation work began on that part of the castle, no one alive knew the rooms were even there.’
Marianne’s eyes instinctively followed Seb as he walked across the room, helplessly noticing the way his jacket skimmed the powerful shoulders of a man she knew had become an Olympic skier.
It was peculiar to think that she knew so much about him, whereas he knew nothing about her since he’d left her in Paris. She forced herself to look back down at the 10” x 8” photograph of a long, narrow room with row upon row of serviceable shelving filled to capacity.
‘Is nothing in here catalogued?’ the professor asked, pointing at the image he was holding.
‘No.’
Dr Leibnitz nodded his agreement. ‘So far, all we’ve done is make a very cursory inventory. There’s been no attempt at any sort of organisation.’
‘Marianne?’ The professor’s voice startled her. ‘What do you think?’
What did she think? Marianne looked up. ‘I think it’s a mammoth responsibility,’ she said carefully.
He nodded. ‘This needs a team.’
Seb sat down in an elegant Queen Anne armchair, his attention fixed on the professor. ‘What we’re hoping is you’ll feel able to head up that team. Handpick the people you want to work with you.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because you’re highly respected in your field,’ Seb answered, his voice deep, sexy and tugging at all kinds of memories she didn’t want to remember. Certainly not now. Not with Seb sitting so close to her. Marianne swallowed the hard lump that appeared to be wedged in her throat and deliberately looked down at the photograph in her hand.
‘As are many others.’
Marianne’s eyes skittered away from it as Seb leant forward on his chair. She looked back down, silently cursing. Somehow she needed to bring herself under a tighter control. Every movement he made, every blasted thing he did, she seemed to notice.
‘Andovaria is a small principality. Bigger than Liechtenstein or Monaco, but nowhere near the size of Austria or Switzerland. The sheer quantity of what we’ve found has made us think much of it might not rightly belong in Andovaria.’
‘And you have a problem with that?’ the professor asked quickly.
‘Not at all.’
Marianne caught the edge of Seb’s smile in her peripheral vision and she felt her breath catch. For years she’d wondered why she’d talked Beth into letting the boys join them—and now she knew.
‘My sister’s adamant that everything is kept in the way that will best preserve it for future generations.’ Seb paused. ‘But my primary responsibility is to Andovaria and I intend to ensure that everything that rightfully belongs to my country stays within our boundaries.’
He stood up and Marianne noticed the powerful clench of his thigh muscle. ‘And the easiest way, by far, is to put someone in charge of the project who has a neutral interest in what’s found.’
‘My interest is far from neutral.’
Seb smiled again and the pain in her chest intensified.
‘But you’re not actively seeking government funding or trying to raise the profile of any one particular museum….’ Seb’s words hung in the air.
The odds had always been weighted in favour of going to Andovaria, Marianne knew, but now it felt like a foregone conclusion. Peter would most definitely accept. How could he not? And how could she argue against it when it was clear his eyes wouldn’t be the ones evaluating every single piece, or writing every report?
Damn it!
Marianne put the photograph back down on the table. A sharp pain burst in her temple and shot down the left side of her neck. She raised a shaky hand and rubbed gently across her forehead.
Could she honestly go to Andovaria with Peter?
Maybe this was fate’s way of giving her that much talked-of ‘closure’? Maybe spending time in Seb’s country was exactly what she needed? And all it required was courage?
Her fingers moved in concentric circles against the pain in her temple. She was aware of Dr Leibnitz speculating about what might be found beneath Poltenbrunn Castle and the professor’s comments about the Habsburg dynasty and Rudolf von der Hapichtsburg in particular.
‘Marianne, are you feeling all right?’ the professor asked, breaking off his conversation.
Her hand stilled and she forced a smile. ‘I’ve a slight headache. It’s nothing.’
‘Perhaps some air?’ Dr Liebnitz suggested. ‘Shall I sit with you on the terrace for a moment, Dr Chambers?’
‘N-no, thank you. I’m fine. It’ll pass in a moment.’
Seb stood up and the abrupt movement startled her. ‘I’ll keep Dr Chambers company on the terrace while you continue your conversation, Max. It’s a little stuffy in here and I’d appreciate some fresh air myself.’
Panic ripped through her. ‘N-no. I—’
‘The terrace is very pretty,’ Seb interrupted smoothly, ‘with a stunning view over Green Park. Whenever I’m in London I particularly ask for this suite for that reason.’
His arm gestured towards the open glass doors and Marianne knew she had very little choice but to acquiesce with as much dignity as she could manage. ‘Thank you.’
By the time she was on her feet Seb was already standing by the doors, waiting. She didn’t dare look up at him as she walked out onto the terrace. A light breeze tugged at the silk of her dress, but the evening was warm enough. Almost. She gave a slight shiver, although that might have had nothing to do with the temperature outside.
‘Are you cold?’ he asked quickly. ‘Do you have a wrap Warner could fetch for you?’
Marianne turned. ‘Warner?’
‘He’s the butler this evening.’
‘Ah.’ Warner was the butler. She’d forgotten—the staff had names. Although Warner, it seemed, didn’t warrant the use of his Christian name. So much for the equality of mankind. Marianne shook her head. ‘No. Thank you.’ It was nice to feel the breeze brushing against her skin. Nice to feel something other than the tight, constrained sensation in her chest.
She looked round the terrace. It was tiny, but beautifully formed—and the view was spectacular even at night. Seb was right about that. Marianne turned round and caught him watching her. His expression made her nervous and she looked away, stumbling into speech. ‘Th-this is all rather…incredible,’ she said, gesturing at the display of lights below them.
Seb moved closer. She could smell the light musky scent of his aftershave. Feel him breathing next to her.
‘The terrace?’ he asked quietly. ‘The view? Or us being together again?’
Marianne felt her throat constrict. Her eyes turned to look at him as though she was compelled to do so. ‘All of it,’ she said after a moment, her voice breathy.
Silence. Then Seb smiled and it still had the ability to seduce her. Why was that? Other men had smiled at her with just that look in their eyes, but they’d never made her feel so light-headed.
Marianne wrapped her arms around her waist in a movement she recognised as defensive, but she didn’t move away. There was a part of her that was very proud of that. ‘I didn’t curtsey.’
‘Pardon?’
‘When I arrived. I didn’t curtsey to you.’ For some reason it suddenly seemed so important he knew that.
A spark of laughter lit his dark eyes and he glinted down at her. ‘I think we’re a little past that. Certainly in private.’
‘I’m not doing it in public either,’ she shot back, irritated by the suspicion he was laughing at her. Marianne nervously fingered the back hook of one of her earrings. ‘Did you know I was coming with the professor tonight?’
‘Yes.’
She desperately wanted to ask what he’d thought about her coming. Did he find this situation as awkward as she did? But of course, that was impossible. He’d spoken to her as though they were strangers—and that was what they were. Strangers.
‘Peter couldn’t remember exactly what he’d told you. Whether I’d been a nameless colleague…’
‘No.’
No. Her eyes flicked up and away again. There was some comfort in hearing that he’d invited her to join them this evening knowing it was her. The hum of the traffic far below filled the awkward pause. ‘Oh.’ And then, ‘Were you surprised when he mentioned my name?’
‘Very.’
She could hear something like a smile in his voice and risked another look at him. It was a mistake. His eyes hadn’t changed. There might be fine lines fanning out at the edges now, but they were achingly familiar.
‘I knew there was a slight possibility I might see you at the conference, but that Professor Blackwell would refuse to come to Andovaria without you…’ His mouth twisted and he shook his head. ‘No, that part surprised me. You’ve done exceptionally well.’
She had, but she didn’t need him to tell her that. She felt as if she’d suffered the verbal equivalent of a regal pat on the head.
‘He made it very clear this morning his decision on whether he’d accept or not would be made in consultation with you. It’s impressive to have achieved that level of professional respect by the age of twenty-eight.’
Seb knew how old she was. He’d remembered the fifteen-month age difference between them. Marianne swallowed—and it felt a monumentally difficult thing to do. It was as though every normal function was now something that required conscious effort.
But then, Seb was standing so close. If she stretched out her hand she could touch him…If she leant in close he could hold her…It was bound to be difficult.
‘So, what do you think?’
Marianne blinked hard at the tears scratching at her eyes. ‘About?’
‘Coming to Andovaria? Do you have a husband to keep you in England? Family?’ he added when she’d yet to answer.
‘No husband.’
‘Boyfriend?’
Now, that was none of his business. Marianne swivelled round and schooled her features into the expression she habitually used to quash anyone who thought to question a young blonde female’s ability to have opinions that ran counter to their own. ‘Andovaria is only a short flight away,’ she said brusquely. ‘If the professor decides to accept, I’ll come with him. It’s a good career opportunity for me.’
‘And that’s important to you?’
‘Of course. It’s the driving force of my life.’
There was a small beat before he asked, ‘What do you think the professor’s thinking?’
Marianne shook her head. ‘He’ll let you know when he’s ready.’
‘And you don’t have a preference?’
His question was multi-faceted—and they both knew it. She looked down, apparently fascinated by the shades of pink that swirled together on the skirt of her dress. ‘I—I didn’t say that.’
‘Marianne—’
Her control snapped. ‘Don’t!’ She turned away as though to go back into the sitting room.
‘We need to talk.’
‘Not here,’ she said in almost a whisper. ‘This isn’t the place.’
‘It’s the best we have.’ And then when she didn’t move away any further, ‘I get the impression that Max and Professor Blackwell will hardly miss us however long we’re out here.’
He saw the faint nod of her head, her earrings swinging back and forth.
‘And there’s no one to hear us out here.’
Marianne stood motionless for a moment as though she was deciding what to do. The breeze caught at the light fabric of her dress. And he waited, completely uncertain whether she’d turn or walk back inside.
‘I suppose that’s important,’ she said at last, turning back to face him.
Marianne shivered again and wrapped her arms tightly around her. It hurt him to see her looking so…strained. That wasn’t the way he remembered her looking at him.
‘What do you want to tell me?’ She rubbed at her arms.
Another shiver. ‘You’re cold. If we were really on our own I’d give you my jacket.’
She seemed to uncoil and a spark of anger lit her eyes. ‘Well, that’s just a lovely offer, Your Serene Highness.’
It took a moment for him to remember what she was remembering. The walk in the park. The rain. The kiss. She’d looked so incredibly sexy in his sweatshirt, the sleeves rolled over three times…
The situation had been different then. For those brief weeks he’d been free—as he hadn’t been since. That summer the embargo on reporting his private life had miraculously held. There’d been no bodyguards, no responsibilities and, amazingly, no paparazzi. He’d been free to act exactly as he wished without reference to anyone or anything.
And what he’d wanted had been Marianne.
Seb broke eye contact and crossed back to the sitting room, beckoning to the butler. ‘Could you find Dr Chambers something to keep her warm?’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘And bring us a bottle of the dry white and a couple of glasses.’
His answer was a slight nod.
‘Thank you.’ He turned back to Marianne, fascinated by the pulse beating in her neck. ‘Shall we sit down?’
There was a moment’s hesitation before she decided to do just that. She sat herself facing out over the terrace, her eyes fixed at some point out in the distance, back straight and hands gripped in her lap.
Seb positioned himself opposite. Bizarrely, now she was sitting there, he was in no hurry to begin. What could he say that would begin to explain?
At nineteen he’d been so overwhelmed…by everything. All he’d been able to do was react to whatever was happening in that precise moment. There’d been so much to adjust to.
And somehow he’d managed to block the image of Marianne waiting for him in Paris. Convinced himself she wasn’t his most urgent priority. For someone who lived his entire life trying to do the right thing by everyone, it was ironic he’d done something so spectacularly wrong.
What was it she had said? That she’d spent years of her life thinking him a ‘waster’ and a ‘liar’?
And yet she’d never taken her story to the Press. Never sold the photographs she must have of their time together. There wasn’t an editor alive who’d have failed to snap them up. Her story would have made her thousands.
But she had more dignity than that. A cool, classy lady.
‘How’s Nick these days?’
Her question startled him, broke into his thoughts. Seb met her eyes and saw the steely determination. She didn’t want this, didn’t want any part of this conversation, but she was damned if she was going to let him see it. And she’d had enough of waiting.
‘Are you still in contact with him?’ she prompted when he was slow to answer. ‘Or was he some kind of bodyguard and you lied about that as well? He tried hard enough to keep you away from me. Was that his job?’
Seb cleared his throat, still searching for the right words. ‘We’re friends. Good friends. And, for what it’s worth, he thought I should have told you exactly who I was—’
‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’
From the expression on her face it certainly wasn’t. Seb ran a hand across his neck, easing out the tension there. ‘We’re still in close contact, although I see him less often since his father’s death.’
‘And what was his real name? Archduke Nikolaus?’
‘Marianne…’
Her eyes widened. ‘I’m sorry, am I making this difficult for you?’ she asked, her rich voice distorted by sarcasm.
‘As of last April Nick’s the fifteenth Duke of Aylesbury.’
Marianne looked down at her fingers and concentrated on the opal colour of her nail varnish. Nick was a duke. Why was she surprised? Had she honestly expected anything different? Nick Barrington was the fifteenth Duke of Aylesbury and Seb Rodier was His Serene Highness Prince Sebastian of Andovaria. Inadvertently she must have strayed into La-La Land and nothing was as it seemed any more.
‘How’s Beth?’ he asked, shifting in his seat.
Marianne’s head came up. ‘I’d love to tell you she’s the Marchioness of Basingstoke, but unfortunately she isn’t. You see, we weren’t pretending. We were exactly what we told you we were.’
‘Did she become a lawyer?’
‘Y-yes. Yes, she did.’
He’d remembered. He’d remembered a single throwaway comment Beth had made on the first afternoon they’d all spent together. And somehow that made the ground shift beneath her. She didn’t want to soften towards him. She wanted to keep a steel barrier between them as protection. But…
Her voice faltered. ‘She’s married to an anaesthetist with a baby due in a couple of months.’
‘That’s great.’
‘She’s very happy.’
The sound of footsteps brought her head round in time to see the butler walking across the rooftop courtyard with her wrap spread out over his arm. ‘Your Serene Highness. Dr Chambers,’ he said as he carefully placed it round her shoulders.
‘Thank you,’ she said awkwardly. Intellectually she knew it was his job, but she was uncomfortable with being at the receiving end of it. In her world she opened doors for herself, found the sleeves of her own coat…
Marianne looked down and pleated the tassels together. The silence was punctuated by the precise step of the butler as he crossed the terrace, returning moments later. ‘Is Professor Blackwell asking for me?’ she asked, looking up, hoping for an escape route.
‘He’s not made any comment to me, madam,’ he replied, pouring the wine with easy, practised movements.
This all felt so peculiar. A balmy night in a beautiful setting…with a man she used to be in love with.
‘I’m not drinking tonight,’ she said as soon as the butler was out of earshot once more. ‘Alcohol’s not good for a woman with a headache.’
‘I suppose that depends on why she has a headache,’ Seb replied, his dark eyes seeming to see so much more than she was comfortable with. Then he picked up his own glass and drank. ‘You should reconsider. This is considerably better than the paint stripper we drank together in France.’
It was a shared memory—and a happy one. Marianne felt another crack in the shield. She didn’t want to thaw towards him. She wanted her anger to stay at the fore…But instead she felt the first stirrings of a smile.
To hide it she picked up her glass and sipped. The chilled wine was crisp and light, with a heady scent of lemon trees. ‘It’s lovely.’
He smiled. ‘But not as nice as our whisky?’
Something deep inside her twisted. ‘No.’ Nothing would ever taste as nice as the whisky they’d drunk that night. The first time she’d ever tasted whisky and the first time she’d ever made love.
‘How long did you wait for me in Paris?’ he asked quietly.
Marianne let her fingers curve around the glass in her hand, watching the beads of condensation. Her mind was back in the tiny bedroom they’d shared for three nights. Nothing there but a bed, a small wardrobe and the sounds of people enjoying themselves in the nearby restaurants.
‘Not long,’ she said, raising her eyes. ‘Madame Merchand had wanted me to start earlier so I telephoned her and said I could come immediately. It seemed sensible when you didn’t phone me.’ She took another sip of wine.
‘Were you unhappy with them?’
Marianne looked up, surprised by his question.
‘I know you left early.’
He did? How? Marianne stayed watching him, her eyes wide.
His mouth twisted. ‘I did contact you. Late, I admit, but Monsieur Merchand said you’d returned home weeks before.’
That was something she didn’t know. Marianne felt her chest become tight. Seb had contacted her. Her mind felt as if it had splintered into a billion fragments. ‘N-nine weeks…all but a couple of days.’
‘Did you go to another family?’
His questions felt relentless—and she didn’t want to answer. Marianne shook her head. ‘I went home. Beth stayed in Honfleur for the full year, but I…’ She trailed off. She didn’t want to think about the reasons for her return home. Or what had happened when she got there.
And Seb had spoken to Monsieur Merchand. When? Why? So many questions were streaming through her brain.
‘Were you homesick?’
‘I—I just needed to go home,’ she countered. Marianne took a deep breath and tried to re-group. The fact that Seb had eventually tried to contact her changed nothing. Nothing at all.
He’d had her address in England. He could have reached her at any time. Even when she’d gone to live with the professor and his family she hadn’t been untraceable. In fact, her mother had been so desperate to know who the father of her daughter’s baby was she’d happily have passed on any man’s telephone number.
‘Why didn’t you contact me at home?’
Marianne watched the muscle pulse in his cheek before he met her eyes. Saw his unwillingness to speak and braced herself for his reply.
‘I didn’t want the conversation we were going to have,’ he admitted, his voice more gravelly than she’d ever heard it.
He’d rung her to finish their relationship. The thought hit Marianne with a dull thud.
Seb shifted in his seat. ‘I felt…grateful to have been let off the hook. The fact that you’d left France…seemed to make everything easier.’
Well, that was honest. The dispassionate part of her admired him for that even while she felt desperately hurt by what he was saying.
‘I should have made more effort to speak to you.’
‘It would have been nice if you’d written,’ Marianne suggested in a voice that sounded small in her own ears. ‘For weeks I didn’t know what had happened to you. I’d no way of contacting you—’
Seb shook his head and his eyes seemed to be asking for understanding. ‘I was advised against that. I was told to put nothing in writing—’
‘Why?’ The question was out of her mouth even as the answer flooded her mind. A frown pulled at her forehead.
‘You thought I’d sell it? You…bastard! You pompous—’
‘Marianne, they don’t know you. It wasn’t based on any personal evaluation—’
‘You did! You knew me.’ It took every ounce of control she had not to tip what was left of her wine over him. How dared he think that about her? ‘You should have known I’d never do anything like that. I—’
‘I was a coward,’ Seb interrupted her. ‘I should have come to England and spoken to you about what was happening in my life. If I’d been older, felt more in control of what was happening…’
He trailed off for the second time, but Marianne almost didn’t notice. She was incandescently angry. It felt like a bright light burning inside her.
Everything was so much worse than she’d thought. She hadn’t believed that could be possible.
But Seb had returned to Andovaria and turned their perfect, private little world into something sordid. He’d sat around with his advisers while they debated how best to ‘manage’ her. While she…
Dear God.
She felt hot tears prick insistently behind her eyelids and blinked furiously. She wouldn’t cry. Mustn’t. But the thought of their beautiful romance being talked over, discussed and dissected…
One single tear welled up and spilled down her cheek.
‘Marianne.’ Seb’s voice cracked and he reached out as though to touch her.
‘No!’ She furiously brushed away the trail of moisture.
‘I’m sorry—’
‘So you say,’ Marianne said, standing up abruptly. ‘I think I’ve heard enough of your explanations now. You’re sorry, I’m sorry, we’re both sorry. Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?’
‘I haven’t told you what happened when I got home. Why I—’
Marianne laughed. It wasn’t a joyous sound, but hard and brittle. ‘What’s to understand? You forget I know practically everything about you. You’re tabloid fodder. Shortly after your marriage to Amelie of Saxe-Broden, eighteen,’ she said, her fingers moving to make speech marks in the air, ‘you were enthroned as the Sovereign Prince of Andovaria. I’ve seen the pictures!’
She brushed again at another betraying tear that was making its way down her carefully made up face.
‘It wasn’t quite as you make that sound.’
She turned on him. ‘In what way was it different, Seb?’ she said in a voice laced with sarcasm. ‘The Andovarian tourist industry fancied producing some memorabilia? Thought she’d look good on a stamp, perhaps?’
If he’d raised his voice or moved towards her she’d have turned and walked back into the sitting room—but he did neither. His hand rubbed at his neck and he walked over to the rail. His body language seemed to convey that she’d managed to hurt him.
Marianne felt the anger leave her like air from a balloon.
Seb didn’t know anything about Jessica. However much she wanted to blame him for leaving her to deal with the consequence of their affair alone, she knew it hadn’t been a conscious decision.
And she did want to know why he’d left her. The ‘why’ of it had been the thing that had prevented her from being able to truly give herself to any other relationship. The three-month cut-off, Eliana called it.
‘I was called back urgently because my father was ill,’ he began, his voice low and steady.
Marianne shifted her weight from one foot back to the other. ‘I know.’ He’d told her that at the time. She’d helped him pack. Didn’t he remember?
‘They’d found a tumour. In his brain.’
She knew that, too. Prince Franz-Josef’s death, poignantly just weeks before his only son’s marriage, had featured in glossy magazines across Europe…and probably beyond. She’d read all about it in double-page detail.
‘It was inoperable and he knew he had very little time left…to make everything safe.’ For the first time Seb’s voice betrayed real emotion.
‘Why couldn’t you have rung and told me that?’ she asked after a moment. ‘I would have gone to Honfleur just the same and waited until—’
Seb shook his head. ‘You don’t understand, Marianne, it wasn’t that simple.’
Why wasn’t it just that simple? He was right. She didn’t understand that. He might not have told her that he was the crown prince of Andovaria, but his identity hadn’t come as a surprise to him. He’d known that when he met her. When they’d first kissed. When they’d made love…
Nothing had actually changed by his father becoming ill. Not between them.
Marianne moved closer and he must have sensed her standing there because he turned. And his eyes were…bleak. She wasn’t prepared for how that would make her feel.
‘God help me, I loved my father, but the months before his death were filled with far more than concern for a dying man. My life was completely turned on its head.’
‘I’m sure—’
‘No.’ He stopped her. ‘Please. Just listen.’
She nodded.
‘Not just because the father I loved was dying. The Andovarian constitution…’ He broke off. ‘As Crown Prince, I needed to be married by my twenty-first birthday—which left me seventeen months to find a suitable bride.’
Married. To someone suitable. Marianne’s fingers curled around the metal railing and she gripped until her knuckles showed white.
‘Why…why do they have to be married?’
‘Tradition.’ His succinct answer came back at her like a bullet. ‘If you go back far enough all Andovarian crown princes were formally engaged before they were five or six, maybe even married in their absence.’
‘How ridiculous to have something like that in the constitution,’ she said, her voice husky.
‘Until recently Monaco made the same requirement of their ruling prince. In the last couple of hundred years it simply hasn’t been an issue in Andovaria because the crown prince has always been married by the time he succeeded.’
So why didn’t you marry me? The question ricocheted around her head, even though she knew the answer. Cinderella was a fantastic fairy tale, but that was exactly what it was—a fairy tale. Crown princes didn’t marry lower-middle-class girls from Suffolk. She knew it. And he knew it. In fact, he must have known it from the very beginning of their relationship.
Marianne made a conscious decision to let go of the railing in front of her. Of course he wouldn’t have rushed back to Paris and demanded she marry him. That didn’t happen outside romance novels and Hollywood films.
‘The marriage of any member of the royal family has to be approved by either the sovereign prince or, if he’s under the age of twenty-one, by the regent. Any union entered into without it is deemed invalid and any children illegitimate.’
He said the words as though they were rehearsed. Marianne walked slowly back towards the table and sat back down. As a historian she knew this wasn’t unusual. The English constitution required the same of its royal family—and for centuries they’d duly obliged.
How did they do that, normal, flesh and blood people…with the normal, flesh and blood desire to be loved and have someone love them? How did they make themselves marry for the good of the state?
‘Suddenly the question of my marriage was the number one priority.’ He hadn’t moved from the railing. ‘Everything was resting on me.’
In the distance Marianne could hear the hum of traffic. She wasn’t really aware of anything else. In actual fact, it really wasn’t so very different from what she’d always supposed had happened. She hadn’t been good enough.
Not even good enough for a phone call. Not safe enough for a letter.
Slowly Marianne picked up her wine glass and sipped, then carefully she placed it back down in front of her.
‘And…I wouldn’t have been considered suitable?’ She forced herself to say the words.
The slightest pause. ‘No. No, you wouldn’t. Weren’t,’ he corrected.