“Luncheon first.” She rose and found a plate and began heaping it with meat, cheese, and bread. It looked like a lot of food for a lady. “I find arguing—and we do seem to argue quite a lot—is best done on a full stomach.”
He stared at her, perplexed. What was she up to now?
Lady Beckinhall turned, saw him scowling at her, and beamed. “Have something to eat. That’ll make you feel better.”
And she handed the full plate to him.
Well, he couldn’t continue to frown at her when she was being so nice. Winter took the plate, feeling warmth creep into his chest. It wasn’t often that someone else provided for him. Usually it was the other way about.
He cleared his throat before saying gruffly, “Thank you.”
She nodded, unperturbed, and selected a small wedge of cheese and a slice of bread before reseating herself on the settee. “Have you thought about putting something in that corner?” She waved her wedge of cheese at the right side of the fireplace. “A statue, perhaps? I have the most wonderful little white marble statuette. It’s of a stork and a frog.”
He blinked, bemused. “A stork.”
She nodded. “And a frog. Roman, I think. Or perhaps Greek. Maybe it represents one of Aesop’s fables—he was Greek, wasn’t he?”
“I believe so.” Winter set his plate aside, bracing himself. “Charming as this visit is, I think we need to get to the point now, my lady.”
She smiled ruefully. “The arguing so soon?”
That smile sent a bolt straight through his middle, but he soldiered on, keeping his face expressionless. “If we must.”
“Oh, I think we must,” she said softly. “I’ve heard that Lady Penelope intends to hire a new manager for the home.”
He’d been expecting something like this, but the blow was hard nonetheless. This wasn’t just the children’s home—it was his as well. Last night’s rescue of Peach had made him realize that. He could no more walk away from the home than he could cut off his right hand.
But he didn’t let those ragged emotions show on his face. They were carefully hidden. Carefully contained. “And how will you help me keep the home?”
She shrugged elegantly, though he noticed that she couldn’t quite conceal the tension in her face. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one concealing emotions. “I’ll tutor you in social manners, prove that you can be as graceful as any popinjay Lady Penelope finds. It’s the only way to defeat her plans.”
He raised his eyebrows in amusement at her choice of words. “And you’ve appointed yourself my savior? Why?”
“Why not?” She smiled carelessly. “I’ve found I’ve acquired a taste for saving gentlemen lately. Did you know that I helped the Ghost of St. Giles escape from a maddened mob the other day?”
His heart stopped. “No, I did not.”
“Quite brave of me, don’t you think?” Her lips curved mockingly at her own words.
“Yes,” he said with perfect seriousness. “I do.”
She glanced up and he snared her eyes. Her soft mouth wobbled. What was she thinking, this beautiful, exotic creature? She didn’t belong here in his plain sitting room, didn’t belong in St. Giles or in his life. And yet he had a near-impossible-to-resist urge to drag her into his lap and kiss her.
He took a deep breath, beating down the animal. “Well, then. I suppose I’d best put myself under your tutelage.”
“Good.” She rose abruptly and without her usual grace. “Then we shall start tomorrow morning.”
THE NEXT MORNING, Winter stood looking up at the facade of Lady Beckinhall’s town house. It was exactly what he’d expected: new, ostentatious, and in the most fashionable part of London.
The inside was another matter altogether.
Winter paused on the threshold of the grand doors, giving his right leg a rest and trying to understand the difference, ignoring for a moment the supercilious butler who had admitted him. The house was grand, yes, rich and elegantly appointed, but there was something else here as well.
The butler cleared his throat. “If you’d care to wait for Lady Beckinhall in the small sitting room, sir?”
Winter tore his gaze from the sunbeam dancing across the marbled entryway floor and nodded absently at the man.
He was ushered into the “small” sitting room, which, naturally, wasn’t small at all—it was nearly the size of the new home’s dining room. But the room had been appointed in such a way that its large size didn’t seem cold or uncomfortably formal. The walls were a buttery yellow with a gray-blue wainscoting. Groups of chairs and settees were scattered here and there, making smaller, more intimate seating spaces. Overhead, cherubs frolicked on the painted ceiling, peeking from behind billowy white clouds. Winter snorted under his breath at the sight. He strolled toward a fireplace at the far end of the room, not bothering to hide his limp now that he was alone. A pink and white gilded clock ticked on the mantel, its face nearly hidden by curlicues and cupids. The sitting room was at the back of the house and the sounds from the street were muffled, making the room pleasantly quiet.
Winter touched the clock. It was a silly thing, and yet… oddly adorable and utterly fitting in Lady Beckinhall’s sitting room. He frowned, puzzled. How could a clock be adorable?
Something scuttled behind one of the pink settees.
Winter raised his brows. Surely Lady Beckinhall wasn’t troubled by rats? But perhaps she had a lap dog like so many fashionable ladies. He stretched to peer over the back of the settee.
Large brown eyes stared back from a small boy’s face. The child couldn’t be more than five, but he was dressed in a fine scarlet coat and breeches with lace at his throat. Not a servant’s child, then.
He hadn’t known she was a mother. The thought made something in his heart contract.
Winter inclined his head. “Good day.”
The boy slowly rose from his place of hiding and scuffed one foot in the thick, plush carpet. “Who’re you?”
Winter bowed. “Mr. Makepeace. How do you do?”
Some instinct—or more likely hours of tutelage—made the child bow in return.
Winter felt his lips twitch in amusement. “And you are?”
“Christopher!” The answer came not from the boy, but from a frazzled-looking female servant at the door. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, if he was bothering you.”
Winter shook his head. “No bother at all.”
Lady Beckinhall appeared behind the maidservant, her face expressionless. “Christopher, you’ve worried Carruthers terribly. Please make your apologies to her.”
Christopher ducked his head. “Sorry, ’Ruthers.”
Carruthers smiled fondly. “That’s all right, Master Christopher, but I think it’s past time for your bath now if we’re to see the park this afternoon.”
The child dolefully left the room, no doubt doomed to a soapy fate.
Winter looked at Lady Beckinhall as the door closed. “I did not know you had a son, my lady.”
For a split second he was shocked to see pain on her face. Then she smiled brilliantly as if to mask whatever true emotions she might be feeling. “I don’t. I don’t have any children.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Then why—”
But she had already turned to seat herself on the settee, talking all the while. “I thought we’d start simply this morning. The Duchess of Arlington’s ball is one week away, and unless you know how to dance…?”
She obviously didn’t want to talk about the child. Interesting. He shook his head at her inquiring look.
“No, of course not,” she sighed. “Then we’ll have to begin dancing lessons very soon. You’ll need to at least know the steps—I have no hope that you’ll actually master them, but if we can get you to the point where you don’t step on a lady’s toes, I’ll be more than pleased.”
“You’re too kind,” he murmured.
Her eyes narrowed as if she’d taken exception to his dry-as-dust tone. “I think a new suit is in order as well. Perhaps so
mething in cream or light blue silk?”
His pride balked. “No.”
Her lush lips firmed. “You can’t appear in polite society in the dingy clothes you’re wearing now. That coat looks to be at least a decade old.”
“Only four years,” he said mildly. “And I cannot accept such a lavish—such a personal—gift from you, my lady.”
She tilted her head, studying him, and he was reminded of a crow looking one way and then another to figure out how to crack a nut. “Think of it as a gift from the Ladies’ Syndicate. We appreciate the work you do for the home, and a new suit of clothes so you can move about in society is hardly a wasted extravagance.”
He wanted to decline, but her gentle argument made sense. He sighed silently. “Very well, but I must insist upon somber colors. Black or brown.”
She clearly had to bite back the urge to try and persuade him to wear something outrageous—bright pink or lavender, perhaps—but in the end she must’ve seen the wisdom of a compromise.
“Very well.” She nodded briskly. “I’ve sent for tea so we can at least practice that today. And naturally I thought we’d make conversation.”
“Naturally.”
“And while sarcasm does have its place in polite company, it’s best used in moderation,” she said sweetly. “Very strict moderation.”
There was a short silence as she held his gaze. Her blue eyes were surprisingly determined. Surprisingly strong.
Winter inclined his head. “What would you have us converse about?”
She smiled again, and he felt it deep in the pit of his belly, the pull this woman had on him. Pray it did not show upon his face.
“A gentleman often compliments a lady,” she said.
She wanted compliments from him? He searched her countenance for signs of a jest, but she seemed in earnest.
Winter sighed silently. “Your home is very… comfortable.”
He realized now that was the feeling her house exuded: a sense of comfortableness. Homey. That was what it was.
He glanced at her, rather pleased with himself.
Lady Beckinhall looked as if she were trying to restrain a smile. “I’m not sure that is exactly a compliment.”
“Why not?”
“You’re supposed to compliment a house’s decor,” she said patiently. “The taste of its mistress.”
“But I care not for decor or this taste you speak of.” He found himself invested in his argument. “Surely the quality of a home should be measured by the comfort one receives there? In which case, calling your home very comfortable is the highest of compliments.”
She tilted her head as if considering his words. “I suppose you are quite correct. One should be comfortable in a home. I thank you then for your kind compliment.”
Odd, her accession to his argument lit a small flame of warmth in his breast. Naturally, he made no indication of this. Instead, he inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“But,” she continued, “society places no value on comfort in a home, so as kind as your words are to me, they will not do in a ballroom or musicale, as I think you already know.”
The door opened behind him and a phalanx of maids entered bearing tea trays.
He waited until the maidservants had placed their burdens down and been dismissed.
Then he looked at her, this woman too intelligent for the frivolous society she wallowed in. “You would have me change my entire aspect, I see.”
She sighed and leaned forward to pour the tea. “Not entirely. Besides”—she shot him another of her quick, devastating smiles as she set down the teapot—“I doubt you’re such a frail personality as to be so easily changed. Come. Please sit down with me.”
He was still standing, despite the ache in his right leg, as if ready to either flee or fight. This woman made what social graces he had vanish.
Winter took the settee across from Lady Beckinhall, a low table with the tea things forming a protective barrier between them. He resisted the urge to massage his injured leg, which had begun to throb unpleasantly.
She cast him a challenging glance but made no comment on his choice of seat, instead handing him one of the teacups. “You take no sugar or cream, I believe.”
He nodded, taking the dish of tea. It was hot and strong and of a quality that he didn’t often drink.
“Now, then,” Lady Beckinhall said as she stirred sugar and cream into her own tea. “Although I appreciate your compliment of my home, most compliments you’ll be obliged to offer in a ballroom will be of a more personal nature. Something about the lady’s eyes or hair or dress, for instance, would be most suitable.”
She sipped her tea, watching him over the rim with those damnably perceptive blue eyes.
And he couldn’t seem to control his own gaze. He perused her form as he sought a suitable compliment. Ladies were supposed to sit correctly upright, even he knew that, but Lady Beckinhall seemed somehow to lounge bonelessly on the cushions, shoulders back, feet tucked beneath the settee. The position thrust her bosom into prominence, though he did not think it deliberate on her part. She wore a low-cut gown of deep gold, the cloth tenderly cradling her pale, soft breasts.
I would do violence for one glimpse of your naked breasts. Bleed for one taste of your nipple on my tongue.
No, that was probably not the type of compliment she was looking for.
He cleared his throat. “Your voice, my lady, would make a nightingale jealous.”
She blinked as if surprised. “No one has ever complimented me on my voice before, Mr. Makepeace. Well done.”
Were her cheeks a shade pinker than before?
Her lashes lowered. “A few more comments such as that one, Mr. Makepeace, and you might be flirting with me.”
He felt his brows rise. “You wish me to flirt with you?”
She shrugged. “Most of the conversation between a lady and a gentleman at social events is, in essence, flirtation.”
“Then you must flirt with dozens of gentlemen in a night.”
“Do I detect a tone of reproach, Mr. Makepeace?” she asked softly.
“Not at all.” He ordered his thoughts. “I merely observe that in this you are far more knowledgeable than I.
“More experienced, you mean?”
He merely watched her, for the answer was self-evident. She was more experienced—in flirtation and, no doubt, in other, more basic interactions between women and men. The thought sent an unpleasant rush of some foreign emotion through him.
It took a moment for him to recognize—in some astonishment—that what he felt was jealousy. He lived a life of careful constraint. Ladies—females of any kind—were strictly forbidden by the life choices he’d made. And yet…
And yet there was a part of him—a part he’d never noticed before—that had become impatient with his own rules.
“But you must have flirted before,” she was saying, her voice low and velvety. Welcoming and seductive. Everything that was utterly feminine and alluring.
“No.”
Her delicate brows winged upward. “I know your life is busy, but surely you’ve had a tendre for some young girl before? A friend of your sisters’ perhaps? Or a neighbor?”
He shook his head slowly. “No one.” Did she understand to what he confessed? The beast within yawned and stretched. “I lay myself completely in your hands, Lady Beckinhall. Please. Teach me.”
Chapter Five
The fine lady and the Harlequin became lovers, but such things are very hard to conceal, for the fine lady had suitors both rich and jealous and soon they heard the gossip about the Harlequin. One night when the moon was full, they followed the Harlequin into St. Giles and there set upon him with their steel swords. The Harlequin had but his play sword of wood with which to defend himself. The fight did not last long and when it was done, the suitors left the Harlequin dying in the street…
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
Isabel swallowed at Mr. Makepeace’
s low words. His voice sent a shiver across her nerves, making her nipples tighten. Had she heard correctly? Had he just confessed to being a virgin? He was unmarried, true, and by his own admission had never had a sweetheart, but still. Many men resorted to prostitutes—and he lived in an area where they abounded.
But one look at Mr. Makepeace’s proud, stern face disabused her of that notion. Somehow she knew: he would never pay for such an intimate act.
Which meant he was a virgin… and he’d just asked for her tutelage. Surely he didn’t mean—
“Your silence is uncharacteristic, my lady,” he said, still in that deep, precise voice that feathered across her senses. “I hope I have not shocked you with my inexperience… in flirting.”
Flirting. Of course. That was what they were discussing. But she hadn’t imagined the gleam in his dark eyes—or the subtle pause before he’d said “flirting.”
Isabel straightened. She was the experienced one here, after all. “I believe we must work on your introduction, then.”
He merely raised one eyebrow.
She cleared her throat. When had she last been this out of sorts? And over a plain, rigid schoolmaster—a man younger than she! “Flirtation is best begun immediately, even before the introduction. Can you show me your bow?”
He stood slowly and, still holding her eyes, bowed shortly.
She frowned. “No. Something more elegant. Shall I demonstrate?”
“No need.” His gaze was ironic.
This time he backed up a step and pretended to doff an imaginary hat, bowing from the waist, his arms outstretched gracefully.
Isabel’s eyes widened. “If you’ve known all along how to give a proper bow, why haven’t you?”
He straightened slowly and shrugged broad shoulders. “A simple nod of the head gives enough deference without such silly flourishes.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, from now on flourish, please, when in polite company.”
“As you wish,” he said gravely.
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