That hadn’t been true lately. Since Deboque’s release he felt he could never stretch his arms out without bumping a guard. And still nothing. His eyes clouded, as much with impatience as with anger. He wanted Deboque to move. He relished the thought of being able to deal with him personally, and finally. Instinctively he touched a hand to his shoulder where a bullet had entered. Yes, he would relish it.

The look in his eyes made her uneasy. There was something to watch for and defend against there. The man beside her was not the easygoing, easy loving prince she’d come to expect. Whatever, whoever he thought of seemed to communicate itself to his mount for Dracula shied nervously. She saw how easily he controlled the stallion, only a flexing of muscle. He could be kind or harsh, gentle or rough. Her own palm grew damp on the reins.

“Is something wrong?”

“What?” He glanced over. For an instant the look was still there, hard and dark enough to make her tense. Then it was gone and he was smiling again. There was no Deboque this morning, Bennett told himself. He was sick of having every aspect of his life and his family’s lives clouded by one name. “No, nothing. Tell me what you do at home, Hannah. I can’t picture you there.”

“We live quietly in London.” It was partially the truth. She wondered why she thought of it as partially a lie. “I do a great deal of my work at home, which makes it convenient for me to keep house for my father.”

“Your work,” he repeated. “Your essays?” He was leading her along the easiest route, where the incline was gentle.

“Yes.” Again, there was a twinge of discomfort. “I hope to have them ready for publication in a year or two.”

“I’d like to read them.”

She shot him a look of surprise, then almost immediately felt her muscles tighten. It had nothing to do with fear. Even if he’d demanded to see her work, she had enough that would satisfy him. No, it wasn’t fear but a certainty that if she had to continue to lie to him much longer, she would be physically ill.

“You’re welcome to, of course, but I don’t think my writing would be of great interest to you.”

“You’re wrong. You’re of great interest to me.”

She looked down, but not in the shyness he thought he saw. Once again it was shame. “It’s lovely here,” she managed after a moment. “Do you ride this way often?”