He stiffened, holding his hands out to his side, away from her. But for a flicker of thought, he hesitated, reacting to the raw fear in her face. A part of him felt drawn to the role he had always played in her life: protector, friend. When the other children of the aristocracy in his neighborhood had made fun of his awkward social habits, acquired from his recluse of an uncle, she’d stepped in as his friend. But, a commoner, she would have been bullied and shunned if not for his intervention. While they ridiculed, he was still a comte, which carried much more clout than any of them could boast.

He reviewed possibilities. If he could help her leave Paris, she could start over, free from the constant snare of her life. Cautiously he returned her embrace, considering further. He ran his hands up and down her back; then he stilled, remembering other hands that had held her thus. Pulling away, he searched her face. Before she could hide it, cunning—a shadow of Robespierre’s own expression—reflected back.

Shaking his head, he moved away. “You don’t need me. All doors are open for you. Leave on the next ship.”

She widened her eyes. “But what of us? I need you, Matteo. It has always been you and I. We were made to be together.” She ran her fingers up his arm.

All his hairs stood on end, and he stepped farther away from her. “You should leave.”

Her lips thinned into a tight line and then, relaxing them, she pouted. “What is it? Am I no longer beautiful?” She held her arms out and turned in a slow circle.

Matteo shook his head. “It is what you have become that is no longer beautiful.”

Her eyes bulged, and she slapped his face, a line of red filling the fresh white scratch along his cheek. Her sultry voice suddenly shrill, she shouted, “I had no choice. When the committee came for me, I did whatever I could to stay alive. How can you blame me for that? When you, you wouldn’t take me!” Her words choked her and pain pinched her face, but her eyes flashed venom.

“Throwing yourself at Robespierre, using your . . . beauty to stay alive is . . . would be a torture worse than death. But worse even than that, you joined them, didn’t you? Denounced innocents!” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing the blood from his cheek. “You are the reason the Dampierre family is dead. Even their children, sent to the guillotine. We grew up with them. How could you do that?” Hurt flashed through him as it had the day he’d heard the news, the day he’d come too late to save them.