The Lothario had his act down pat. He’d even tricked her for a moment in the shop when she mistook him for a gentleman in need of rescue.
“But this time I mean it,” he added.
“I’m sure you do,” she replied wryly. “Just as much as you meant it all the other times.” She was suddenly aware of a hired carriage following them down the street. “Is that yours?”
He nodded. “It was taking me to the train station when I saw you and changed my mind about leaving today.”
“Saw me?”
“I followed you into the shop. Now I’ve missed my train.”
“That was very foolish of you, wasn’t it?”
“On the contrary. I think it’s possibly the wisest thing I’ve ever done.” His gaze traveled leisurely across her lips. “Something tells me I’ll be forever grateful for it.”
Despite his best efforts, they had reached the corner. “I’m sure there are other trains leaving today.” She slipped her hand from his arm, tucking it away in her fleece-lined muff, being very mature and ignoring her excitable pulse. “Good bye, Mr. Blackwood.” She should have walked away immediately and made an elegant exit, but something held her there a moment longer. Perhaps it was the breadth of his shoulders sheltering her from the cold on that breeze blown corner that made her reluctant to leave his shadow. Perhaps it was simply because he amused her. Perhaps it was that morbid curiosity she couldn’t seem to control.
Oh damn and blast! Now she’d looked into his eyes yet again, just when she’d promised herself …
The breeze lifted one of his messy dark curls and dropped it against his temple. He wore no hat and had apparently forgotten all about his mission to buy one. She looked at the wayward curl rolling across his brow as the wind picked up speed. Inside her muff, her fingers fidgeted, winding around one another.
Suddenly, he put those rough, work-worn hands around her cheeks, tipped her face upward and kissed her. Her feet wouldn’t move. Her body leaned toward him like a flower to sunlight. She felt the damp sweep of his tongue parting her lips, and through half-lowered lashes, she watched a raindrop dangle from another curl beside his ear. People must be looking at them, but she didn’t care. He tasted of brandy.
At noon on a Wednesday, he tasted of brandy.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” he said the moment their lips parted. “I’m not an extremely rich man, so if you’re after me for that—”
“Me?” she exclaimed. “After you? I never—”
“But I have an adequate income and I live comfortably. If there is anything else you care to know about me, just ask. Don’t be shy.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Thank you, Mr. Blackwood, but I—”
“There’s no need to thank me for anything.” He smiled again, showing more of those good teeth. “Yet.” When she tried walking around him, he blocked her path. “I ought to warn you not to fall in love with me,” he added. “It would be very unwise.”
Indeed it would, she mused. He was surely old enough to be her father.
“We really must only be friends and try not to complicate matters,” he added. “I wouldn’t want to break your heart.”
At last she found the will to walk away. “Don’t worry about me. I haven’t got a heart to break.” She paused and looked back over her shoulder. “And you, Mr. Harry Blackwood, haven’t the brains you were born with umpteen years ago if you think I’d ever fall for your ancient line of patter.”
The sound of his hearty laughter followed her down the street until the rain drowned it out.
Chapter Three
Tossing her muff and cape onto the couch, she rang the bell for Mrs. Draycott. From the end of the hall, she heard the ruckus of luncheon being greedily devoured and decided to have some tea on a tray at her desk rather than join the merry fray in the kitchen. She felt the first pinches of a headache coming on and didn’t want to make it any worse before tonight.
Mrs. Draycott entered the parlor in her usual busy, fussing manner. There were never enough hours in the day, she always claimed, to get her work done. Yet she refused to abdicate even the tiniest of tasks to another pair of hands. She was never happier than when she had too much on her plate and plenty to complain about.
“You’ll take a tray of luncheon, Miss Christina, here in the parlor?”
“Just a cup of tea, thank you, Mrs. Draycott. And then I don’t wish to be disturbed for an hour or two.” She realized, glancing down at her leather-bound book, that she had yet to decide which escort to bring to the ball tonight. There were currently seven young men living in her house, but she must make her choice carefully.
“You look tired, Miss Christina. Shall I make you up a little tonic?”
“No, thank you. Just tea will do nicely.” Her nerves were on edge about the ball tonight. It was her first appearance in society. Everything had to go smoothly. She would meet her father at last. That shadowy, faceless figure who’d wanted no part in her life. No wonder her stomach was so unsettled.
Distantly aware of the front door bell ringing, and of Mrs. Draycott leaving the parlor to greet the visitor, she opened her notebook and read down her list of residents, wondering which one to bring with her tonight.
Walter? No, too clumsy for dancing. Alexander? Too shy and tongue-tied. Peter? Too unpredictable. Hugh? Too wiry and sly.
Finger running down her list, she frowned, her headache multiplying.
“Miss Christina, there’s a gentleman here to see you.” Mrs. Draycott was back, coming all the way in and closing the door behind her.
Hearing that soft click, Christina looked up, vaguely annoyed. “I don’t want to see anyone this afternoon.”
“I think you’ll want to see this one, Miss Christina. He’s just the sort you’ve been looking for to round out the options. If you get my drift.”
She closed her book. It was true. She’d recently fretted to Mrs. Draycott that her stable lacked a little something. A novice when it came to men, she hadn’t been able to put her finger on exactly what that something might be. “Very well.” She sighed. “Bring him in. And then fetch me that cup of tea if you will, Mrs. Draycott.”
The housekeeper disappeared again and, a moment later, bustled the new arrival into the parlor. “Do as the mistress says, answer her questions politely, and don’t try anything saucy or I’ll rap your head with a rolling pin.” That threat thrown down at his feet, Mrs. Draycott left them alone, closing the door behind her, in a hurry to get on with her work.
Harry Blackwood stood in her parlor, a large package under one arm, and looked around with interest. Should have known, thought Christina wryly. The housekeeper had complained the men in the house were too young and too thin. Some of us like a real man to get hold of, the old lady would exclaim occasionally.
“So, you’re the Whitechapel Improvement Committee,” he remarked, chuckling. “I’ve heard so much about your good works, but I had no idea—”
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, deciding not to stand.
“I followed you,” he admitted unabashedly.
“Why?”
“I wasn’t done with our conversation.”
She tapped her fingers on the desk and glared at him, trying to think of something clever and witty to say. She wished she’d had greater warning before Mrs. Draycott brought him in, because her hair was desperately in need of tidying. And she could have checked her face in the mirror she kept in her desk.
“Your housekeeper seems to think I’m here for a job,” he added, black eyes twinkling, luring her in again. She was reminded of sticky, sweet treacle dropping with timeless care from the back of a spoon.
“I’m not hiring.”
“That’s a pity.”
“You don’t look as if you need work.” He didn’t have that lean, eager appearance she’d come to recognize.
He grinned. “Hardly work, is it?”
So he knew what sort of house she ran. Would he try blackmail now? She wouldn’t put it pas
t him. There was a distinctly dangerous air in his manner. She wondered how she could have missed it before, when she, foolishly imagining he needed her help, raced to his rescue against that vile, pushy woman.
“I saw all the young men coming in your side entrance,” he explained, setting his package down and leaning it carefully against the front of her desk. He sounded very matter-of-fact, not shocked at all. “And I’d heard rumors about your mother’s line of work, but I would have thought women were more profitable.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Oh?” He was slipping off his rain-soaked overcoat looking for somewhere to put it. Mrs. Draycott must have been too distracted to take it off him in the hall.
“Women want excitement, adventure, and passion in their lives just as much as men do,” she said. “And they want it on their own terms too.”
He looked up, his quizzical gaze meeting hers, reaching inside her, searching.
Raindrops hung in his wilted curls and trickled down his forehead. Some even glistened in his coal-black eyelashes, making them shine with a brilliant luster. She supposed Mrs. Draycott could be forgiven her mistake this once. It was easy to see how he might have tricked the housekeeper into thinking him something extraordinary. He was a cunning old fox, but she was wise to him.
She’d better take his coat before it stained her furniture. Finally standing, she walked around her desk, reaching for it. “Now that you’re here, you may as well finish what you wanted to say, then. I’m busy and you have a train to catch.” She hung his coat over the back of a chair, turning it to dry in the glow of the fire.
“I came to London to find your mother,” he said.
She turned. “Oh?”
He was very close behind her, just in time to stamp out a spark from the coals that landed with a fizzle on the hearth by her foot. His fingertips touched her arm. Her breasts almost brushed the front of his waistcoat. “Mind your skirt in the fire,” he said, his voice sounding hollow, his eyes looking, not at her endangered gown, but at her bosom.
Also endangered, apparently.
Christina moved away, her heart thumping so hard it shook the small pearls hanging from her ears.
“My father was Randolph Blackwood.” He said it as if she should know the name. “At one time in his life, he fancied himself an artist and painted nudes for what he called his private collection. Your mother posed for one of his portraits.” Walking to her desk, he lifted the package and began to unwrap it with care. “When he died earlier this month, he left his private collection to me and my brothers, asking that we return the paintings, in person, to his muses.”
The portrait stood before her in Harry Blackwood’s large hands, and there was no denying the identity of the naked woman in it. Definitely her mother.
“Perhaps you’d like to keep it,” he said. “My father didn’t want the paintings falling into the wrong hands and apparently promised his models that no one else but him would ever look at them.”
Lips pursed, she examined his face. “But you’ve looked at it.”
“Yes.” He had the grace to look slightly guilty.
“And you thought I was her when you first saw me.”
He set the painting down on her desk. “I thought you were a ghost. I’d just learned from my father’s solicitor that Louisa Deveraux was dead.”
No wonder he’d stared at her so strangely in the tailor’s shop, as if bewitched or enraptured by her. He looked right through her dress and petticoats, fondled her with his eyes as if he knew every hidden inch of her body.
Mystery solved. It didn’t, however, explain why she’d found him so fascinating at first sight.
“Because my mother was once a concubine, you thought I was one too. Hence your forward behavior toward me in the street.”
He scratched the side of his nose with one finger. “Hmm.”
“Well, I’m not a whore, Mr. Blackwood. I only run the place.”
His eyes narrowed. He sniffed. Either he was catching a cold or he didn’t believe her. Wouldn’t he be amazed to learn she was a virgin?
A tap at the door signaled Mrs. Draycott’s return. Without being asked, she’d brought two cups on the tray. “Will you want me to stay, Miss Christina?” she asked. “For the interview. As I usually do?”
“No, thank you. I’ll manage this one alone.”
“I thought you would.”
Eyebrows raised, she looked at the housekeeper, who merely set the tray down on the small table between two chairs and hurried out again.
“Ah, tea!” Her uninvited guest rubbed his hands together. “How thoughtful. Don’t mind if I do.” He strode over to the tray, poured himself a cup, and dropped to a chair. “Dratted cold for April, isn’t it?”
She supposed he could have one cup. It might be peevish to deny him that since he’d returned her mother’s picture. “I wouldn’t want you to miss another train,” she warned, slipping the portrait behind her desk out of sight.
“I’ve decided to stay awhile longer.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Trouble is… I let my hotel room go this morning.”
“But there are many other hotel rooms in London.”
“I could stay here awhile, if you like.”
She hit her knee on the edge of the desk and winced. “I beg your pardon?”
“Surely you’ve got space for one more. It’s a big house.” He sipped his tea. “I’ll earn my room and board. And perhaps while I’m here, I’ll find a way to repay that favor you did for me today.”
“Earn your room and board?”
“Why not? I’m sure I can keep up with the other young studs. Might be fun.”
The man was mad, clearly. “You’re too old,” she exclaimed.
“Too old?” Hs straightened his shoulders. “How the hell old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know. Fifty?”
“Fifty?”
At nineteen, Christina really had no idea about ages beyond her own. Most people in the world seemed older than her.
“I’m thirty-seven,” he blustered, puffing out his chest. “What are you, twelve?”
“Nineteen.”
He paled a few degrees, drank down the rest of his tea in a hurry, probably scalding his mouth, and let the cup and saucer clatter as he dropped it back to the tray.
“What’s the matter?” she asked casually, tempted to laugh.
“I thought you were older.”
“What’s wrong with nineteen? I’m an adult.”
He wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “Barely. What on earth are you doing here?”
“Running a business.”
He looked at her with just as much disapproval as Mrs. Draycott did. Her amusement turned quickly to annoyance.
“I’m young but I’m not stupid,” she assured him. “Or naïve.”
Now he shook his head, further pricking her temper.
“I thought you wanted to be my friend,” she pointed out tersely. “Have you changed your mind about that now?”
“Yes.”
Despite everything, she felt slightly deflated by the brutal honesty of his reply. She’d expected a little polite equivocation, at least. He sat with his hands on his knees, his lower lip pushed out as he glumly contemplated the clock on the mantle. Was he wondering if he could still catch a train? Good riddance then.
“Damn,” he muttered, not looking at her.
Once he walked out of her parlor, she’d never see him again. It was purely by chance, fate as he called it, that he saw her today at all. The truth was, she’d rather liked having him at her side in the street. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was for amusing company, and how pleasant it was to have someone looking out for puddles on her behalf. Christina had very few friends and no family, other than Mrs. Draycott. A loner by nature, she’d always been more interested in her studies than in cultivating friendships, with males or females. Certainly she’d never known the companionship of an older man, someone
to tease and chide her occasionally. And tell her to mind her skirt by the fire. Someone who cared.
Nineteen wasn’t so young, was it? She liked to think of herself as mature and sensible, a capable adult.
Then he added under his breath, “I’ve got riding boots older than you.” The disappointment in his tone was a sharp-edged blade cutting into her proud ribs. She knew he was thinking what a pity it was that she wasn’t her mother, with whom he could have enjoyed a pleasant, uncomplicated dalliance.
Christina tried to stay calm and not show her temper. Well, so much for his “friendship”, then, if it couldn’t even overcome the small issue of her age.
She sauntered across the room as if she didn’t really have a purpose in doing so. But when she reached the little table, she poured herself a cup of tea. Her headache wasn’t nearly as bad now. Her entire mood, in fact, was different. She couldn’t say it was lighter or merrier, but it had changed the moment he walked in and dripped rain all over her carpet. Was it possible that she was glad to see him and flattered that he came? Disappointed that he wanted to leave again already?
She studied him thoughtfully. Perhaps she might have a use for him after all.
He looked away from her, his countenance souring by the minute, disappointment oozing out of him.
She cleared her throat and forged ahead. “When I interview young men for a post in this house, I always ask them to strip.”
Whatever she was doing, she couldn’t stop herself. Christina Deveraux was feeling rather mischievous, and she didn’t like being dismissed as a silly child by this fickle, old Casanova. She wanted to make him look at her again as he had before, just to prove that she could. She’d never actively sought any man’s interest, but she found that having had his attention, even briefly, she didn’t like it taken away from her.
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