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St. Aubyn asked, and it took Catherine a moment to understand that his low-voiced query was addressed to her.
    “Pointless discourse, sir?”
    “Genuine interest,” he replied. His tone was polite, but there was an undercurrent of solicitousness, as though he actually cared whether or not the journey had passed in comfort. His attention and consideration disturbed her far more than his thinly veiled disdain had. He seemed able to don the countenance of sincere regard at will. Such a skill was common in the polite world, but St. Aubyn managed it with uncanny talent. Somehow, he imbued his query with sincerity, though he had already made it plain that such dialogue did not interest him in the slightest.
    He was either addled, or an excellent actor.
    Had she even tuppence to spare, she would bet it on the latter.
    “My journey was most pleasant, thank you.” If one enjoyed the smell of stale sweat and damp rot and a swaying, jolting ride that brought about a steady wave of nausea. “Most pleasant, indeed.”
    St. Aubyn dragged the table close to the bed. The pedestal’s feet shushed across the carpet.
    “You prevaricate well.” He leaned in and whispered as he passed her, his arm brushing her side, his breath fanning her cheek, his low-voiced observation telling her that he had intended the query as a means of finding out something about her.
    Her heart stuttered.
    Yes, she did prevaricate well, but she was not pleased that he had noticed, nor that he was so wily as to have discovered it with such ease. She was even less pleased that the scent of his skin lingered after he passed, faintly citrus. Fresh. Quite lovely.
    She pressed her lips tight. There could be no doubt that he had deliberately set out to unnerve her, but she was clever enough not to let him see any sign of his success. Had she not been trained by a master…a monster?
    She glanced at Madeline to gauge her response to their interplay, but her eyes were closed, her head tipped back on her pillows.
    “So you see, Miss Weston,” St. Aubyn said, straightening from his task, “you disprove your own assertion and prove mine. Your prevarication prevents all hope of intimacy.”
    He turned and stalked to a chair in the corner and began removing the stack of books from the seat, saving Catherine from the need to reply. As if there was any appropriate reply to that.
    With his attention otherwise occupied, Catherine was free to study him from beneath her lashes. He was neither clean-shaven nor bearded, but rather had a disreputable, dark gold stubble glazing his strong jaw.
    His hair was damp, falling in an attractive tumble of thick, messy waves, honey-hued and overlong. The front strands fell to his cheekbones, accentuating their high, curved line; the back strands were longer, the ends curling slightly outward at his nape.
    His hair is damp .
    A fleeting recollection of the shadow in the woods touched her, and she wondered if it was Gabriel St. Aubyn she had seen upon her arrival at the abbey, if his hair was wet from the rain. If he had stood hidden by the tangle of trunks and limbs and watched her. As she now watched him.
    He was beautiful. Alluring.
    Distrust flickered and bloomed. In her experience, handsome men were neither pleasant nor good.
    He removed a stack of books from a second chair, then dragged both to the table.
    “Please,” he said, resting his hands on the back of the chair closer to the bed. The tone of his voice made a queer unease flip in her belly. Not a request. An order. Catherine sat, and St. Aubyn settled his long frame in the seat closest to the door, knees splayed in a posture that was anything but proper.
    He blocked the only exit.
    Her gaze flashed to his. His eyes were liquid topaz with thick, curled lashes, his nose straight and narrow, his mouth a hard, masculine line, the lower lip slightly fuller than the upper. There was a complete lack of expression in his features.
    “You must be talented at cards, Sir Gabriel,” she