He knit his brows. The title was to him sufficient proof that the woman he loved so dearly had forsaken him in order to obtain wealth and position. She would be Princess d’Auzac. It was the way of the world.
“And why have you kept the truth from me?” he demanded, in a harsh tone full of reproach.
“Because I feared you—because—because I loved you, George,” she sobbed.
“Love!” he echoed. “Surely you cannot love me if you can prefer another?”
“Ah! no,” she cried in protestation. “I knew you would misjudge me; you whom I loved so dearly and still love.”
“Then why marry this man, whoever he is?” he interrupted fiercely. He saw her words were uttered with an intense earnestness. There still burned in her eyes the unmistakable light of fond passion. “Because I must.”
“You must? I don’t understand.”
Her cold lips moved, but no sound came from them. In vain she tried to suppress the fierce tumult of feelings that raged within her breast. He was endeavouring to wring her secret from her! the secret of Zertho’s influence. No, he should never know. It was terrible, horrible; its very thought appalled her. To save her father from exposure, disgrace, and something worse she was compelled to renounce her love, sacrifice herself, and marry the man she despised and hated.
“I have promised to marry the Prince d’Auzac because I am compelled,” she said briefly, in a low, firm voice.
“What renders it imperative?” he demanded, his face dark and serious.