Fool Me Twice

Sarcasm might be the lowest form of humor, but certainly it was also the most satisfying.

What a terrible thing it was to wish to be known, to be seen, when one's life depended on remaining unnoticed.

So you hate me now,' she said quietly. 'How convenient for you. As though everything I did for you no longer counts, because I deceived you.

Butterflies emerged in her stomach. She promptly willed them dead.

Well. You must admit, you do need a haircut.” A faint smile ghosted over his mouth. His fingers loosened; they slipped over hers as they withdrew. “Is there anyone in this house whom I could trust to wield the scissors? I have given them all cause to aim for my throat.” Was that a joke? Miracle of miracles! “Come now,” she said hoarsely. “Be sensible. Dead men pay no salaries.

Humbleness came hard to her. She could not value it; too many unkind people had tried to force it on her in her youth. They had expected her to be ashamed, and so she had vowed never to be so.

Perfection was not always beautiful: sometimes, it was terrifying.

He would invent a way. Like a scientist, he would devise a way to take her apart. He would own her by the end. No one else would get the chance.

I think you would have answered the question very cuttingly, if you felt comfortable with your reply.” Her audacity should not be able to surprise him any longer. But he still did not understand how she did this: how she shifted the balance of power between them so suddenly that he felt compelled to reply, to prove himself, to be accountable to her.

It's very easy to resist men, isn't it? But managing to pick the right one -- that is truly worthy of praise.

How had he ever imagined that a petite frame was the key to feminine appeal? Miniatures might be compassed in a single glance. But such an abundance of perfection, long limbs and generous hips, nearly six feet of woman, made for an endless expanse of skin. Such a woman would demand hours to properly peruse. To taste. To penetrate.

She should pretend that he had shocked her. How much more awful to admit that she envied his confidence—his refusal to be ashamed—and his indifference to God and the fate of his soul. How free it made him.

Oh, this was a terrible flaw in her, this need to interfere and manage and fix things.

Villainy was not simply the red raging glory of inflicting well-deserved pain; it was also the curdling knowledge of having inflicted injustice. A villain simply did not care. Only the victims did.

He heard the swishing of her skirts as she approached. God above! Could she not leave well enough alone? 'There is another thing I wished to ask you,' she said as she sat across from him - sat down in his presence without so much as a by-your-leave. Now, *this* deserved a sharp word. He opened his mouth, but she beat him to it, leaning across the chiffonier to whisper, 'By any chance, did you consume five pounds of truffles last week?' What in God's name? 'No.' 'I thought not.' She plucked off her eyeglasses, revealing eyes a startling shade of light blue. He abruptly forgot what he'd been about to say. She was polishing the lenses with her sleeve as she continued to speak. The words might as well have been gibberish. Her eyes were the precise shade of the sky over his garden this past summer ... She replaced the spectacles on her nose, the glare of her lenses masking the miracles behind them.

He had worlds in his eyes; they were magnetic. He was a force of gravity, and his presence, even in this blackest moment, could not be confined to the small, dark space he had made here for himself.

Timidity is fatal to leadership. Men desire an excuse to believe in something greater than themselves; an incompetent braggart will win them far faster than a great man who does not advertise.

Here was confusion in its purest form: finding oneself magnetically attracted to one's poison

Nothing he had done to her last night had eroded that uncanny self-possession that she had no right to possess. A bastard, a servant, a girl who changed names as easily as a hat. He could not come to terms with her. Even now, as the train groaned to a stop, she sat glaring a challenge at him. How did she do it? He understood the source of his own assurance: his power was his armor. But she, who had nothing, walked through the world with her chin held as high as his, and nothing seemed to shame her. How was it possible?

She was not light, but she was not as heavy as she should be. Her bones should be made of iron, for what else was fit to support her bravado? It would shame generals. Emperors. Professional pirates.

He held it up so she could see the spine: The Count of Monte Cristo, by Dumas. “Ah, a tale of revenge. Are you seeking inspiration?” He gave her a rather threatening smile. “So far, our hero seems spineless.” “You must be in the early section, then. I assure you, after Dantes spends years and years locked away, growing into a ragamuffin, he emerges quite deadly. Why, the first thing he does is to cut his hair.” He slammed shut the book. “You are peculiarly deaf to the cues most servants know to listen for. Was there some purpose to your visit? If not, you are dismissed.” She held up the mirror again. “Here is my purpose: you look like a wildebeest. If your valet—” “I don’t believe you know what a wildebeest looks like,” he said mildly. Hesitantly she lowered the mirror. He was right; she hadn’t the faintest idea what a wildebeest looked like. “Well, you look how a wildebeest sounds like it should look.” “That doesn’t even make sense.” He opened his book again. “ ‘Sheepdog’ was the better choice.” She glared at him. “Do you enjoy being likened to a dog?

A flash of anger made her turn back. When had he ever known the kind of vulnerability a woman must suffer, when left on her own to face the world? How could he know that a woman might seek any strategy to render herself ineligible, invisible?

Was it her imagination, or did the townhouse loom? All the other mansions on this street looked polite and elegant, neatly confining themselves within rows of trimmed hedges. This house, on the other hand, sprawled. She spied a gargoyle lurking above one cornice, glowering at her. Of course the Duke of Marwick would have a gargoyle carved into his house!

Olivia began the search feeling calm, numb even. She did not wish to break the chest unless she had to, and the quantity of papers had multiplied in her absence, appearing on the nightstand, taking up a new shelf on the bookcase. But as she searched, heedless of what she knocked over, or pages she ripped in her haste, her actions began to summon a different mood. She tore through the papers as though she were in the grip of some silent, unfolding hysteria.