“Now.” She had to stop to inhale, for oddly she found herself out of breath. “Now, I would like you to practice kissing the hand of a lady.”
She extended her hand, hoping he wouldn’t notice the faint tremor of her fingers.
He paced toward her, took her hand, and bent over it. For a moment, his bowed head obscured their hands, but she felt the brush—warm and intimate—of his lips on her knuckles.
She gasped. “You’re supposed to kiss the air above the lady’s knuckles.”
He raised his head, still bowed over her hand, the position bringing his face much closer to hers. She could see tiny shards of gold in his brown eyes. “Isn’t this a lesson in flirtation?”
“Yes, but—”
He straightened to his full height. “Then it seems to me that a real kiss is more to the point than a pretend one.”
Only now did she see the shadow of a smile lurking at the back of his eyes.
Her own eyes narrowed as she attempted to withdraw her hand from his. His grip remained firm.
“Mr. Makepeace.”
He opened his hand, but only slightly, so that as she withdrew her hand, his fingers seemed to stroke across her palm.
“Perhaps you have no need of instruction after all,” she muttered.
“Oh, but I do, I assure you.” He resumed his seat across from her. “How many lovers have you had?”
She frowned at him, genuinely shocked. “You can’t ask that.”
“You already did of me,” he reminded her, unperturbed.
“I certainly didn’t use the word lovers,” she retorted.
“But the meaning was the same, was it not?”
“Perhaps.” Of course the meaning had been the same. She pursed her lips.
“I apologize. I wasn’t aware your sensibilities were so delicate.”
The wretched man was laughing at her! Oh, his expression was serious enough, but she could tell by the way he watched her that he meant to provoke.
Isabel settled back against the settee cushions and tilted her head. “Three.”
His chin jerked—very faintly, but she’d seen it. She’d surprised him.
Hiding a smile, she waved a hand airily. “Four, if one counts my husband, but I don’t think husbands should be counted as lovers, do you?”
His eyelids half lowered. “I would not know. Did you take lovers when you were married?”
“No.” She made a considering moue. “Rather bourgeois of me, I know, but there it is. I never strayed from my marriage vows.”
“Did he?”
She looked away. “I don’t like these questions.”
“I’m sorry. I did not mean to hurt you.” His voice was deep and sincere.
“You haven’t.” Desperately she fought to regain her social face. She tilted her chin defiantly, gazing at him frankly.
The corner of his lips curved just a bit. “Then you took your lovers after your husband’s death?”
How had she let him lead her into this dangerous conversational territory? Yet now that she was here, she wouldn’t back down. “Yes. I waited a decent amount of time after dear Edmund was buried, naturally.”
“Naturally.”
She would’ve sworn he would be disapproving of a lady taking lovers, but she couldn’t detect disapproval in his tone. He folded his hands in his lap, his manner as relaxed as if they discussed the price of fresh oysters.
“Do you have a lover now?”
What would it be like to teach such a man the arts of the bedroom?
The whispered thought startled her. He wasn’t of her milieu, wasn’t the type of man she would usually consider taking as a lover. She liked sophisticates. Men who were quick with an amusing witticism. Men who knew how to entertain, perhaps surprise in the bedroom, but who were discreet—even distant—out of it. Men who didn’t take an affaire d’amour with any seriousness.
Her heartbeat quickened. “No.” How far was he willing to take this? She leaned forward, her manner seductive. “Are you interested in the position?”
If she’d hoped to make him back down, she was sadly disappointed. His lips quirked, drawing her eyes to that fuller upper lip. Her brows knit in thought.
“I’m interested in many things,” he said, his deep voice precise and unhurried, “but I cannot believe you offer me the position in earnest, my lady. After all, I have already confessed my lack of credentials.”
Any other man would’ve looked abashed to remind her of his inexperience. Mr. Makepeace, in contrast, seemed perfectly complacent, even self-assured. Somehow she knew he would take a love affair very seriously indeed. Once that pinpoint focus was engaged, he would throw himself body and soul into the liaison. Into the woman he decided to take as a lover.
A shiver ran through her at the thought. To be the object of such ferocious regard was an alluring prospect, but it also gave her pause.
Caution, her intellect whispered. Don’t engage this man without proper consideration. He won’t be as easily cast aside as the sophisticates of London society.
Isabel slowly sat back again, regarding her pupil. “Then we’ll need to work on your social skills, won’t we?” She smiled as she dumped her cooled tea and poured herself another dish. “Shall we practice dinner conversation?”
He nodded, and if she saw disappointment in his eyes, she ignored it. She might like to flirt and tease, but she wasn’t without common sense after all.
“I am at your command,” he drawled.
WINTER WATCHED AS Lady Beckinhall took his teacup, dumped the contents, and poured him a fresh cup. Somehow he’d scared her away from their risqué conversation, and now she was set on talking about the weather or some other boring topic.
The strange thing was that he felt a twinge of disappointment. He’d liked sparring with her. Liked even more the small glimpse under the social mask she wore. She’d been truly hurt by her husband, and while he didn’t want to remind her of sad memories, he did want to see again the naked face she’d shown. The true Lady Beckinhall.
She looked at him now, the role of hostess firmly in place. “Have you seen the new opera at the Royal Playhouse?”
“No.” He took a sip of tea, watching her. “I’ve never attended an opera.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly in, if he weren’t mistaken, irritation. “A play, then?”
He silently shook his head.
“A musicale? The fair?”
He merely looked at her and waited.
She hadn’t much patience, his Lady Beckinhall. “I declare you’re the most boring man I’ve ever met, Mr. Makepeace. You must do something besides constantly toil at the home.”
He felt the corner of his mouth curve.
“Sometimes I read.”
“Don’t tell me.” She held out a commanding small palm. “You secretly devour the frivolous novels of Daniel Defoe.”
“I admit to liking Robinson Crusoe,” he said. “And I found his pamphlets on gin and gin distilling interesting if utterly wrongheaded.”
She blinked as if interested in spite of herself. “Why?”
“Defoe argued that gin distilling is integral to the well-being of our English farmers because they sell their grain to the distillers. That argument may be correct, but it doesn’t take into account what gin does to the poor of London.”
She was already shaking her head. “But Defoe wrote later that gin was spoiling the offspring of those same London mothers who drank the—Why are you smiling at me?”
“Reading political pamphlets, my lady?” He tutted as if shocked. “Do the rest of the Ladies’ Syndicate know about this?”
She blushed as if she’d been caught doing something naughty, yet she lifted her chin stubbornly. “You’d be surprised how many ladies read political pamphlets.”
“No,” he said slowly, “I don’t think I would. I’ve never doubted that the fairer sex was as interested as men in politics and the social wrongs of London. I am, however, a bit surprised that you are.”
She shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
He leaned forward. “Because you make every effort to pretend disinterest in anything serious. Why?”
For a moment he thought she would actually give him a straight answer. Then she looked away, her hand waving indifferently. “I’m supposed to be teaching you dinner conversation. Politics is never a good topic for mixed company—”
“My lady,” he began in warning.
“No.” She shook her head, determinedly not meeting his eyes. “You shan’t draw me in again. Novels are a much more proper topic of conversation.”
She wasn’t going to change her mind, he could see, so he humored her. “Even Moll Flanders?”
“Especially Moll Flanders,” she said. “A novel about a woman of ill repute is sure to be a lively topic of conversation.”
“And yet,” he said softly, “despite Moll’s dramatically tragic downfall, I cannot like her as much as Mr. Crusoe.”
She visibly wavered, and he thought she’d stick to her usual society mask. But then she leaned forward, as eager as any girl. “Oh! When he found the footprint in the sand!”
He grinned. “Exciting, wasn’t it?”
“I stayed up all night to read it to the end,” she said, slumping back with a satisfied sigh. “I’ve read it again twice since.” She suddenly fixed him with a gimlet eye. “And if you ever tell one of the ladies that I much prefer Robinson Crusoe over Moll Flanders, I’ll cut out your liver.”
He bowed solemnly. “Your secret is safe with me, my lady.”
The corners of her lush mouth quirked. “Who would’ve thought,” she murmured, “that the so-serious Mr. Makepeace would like adventure novels?”
He cocked his head. “Or that the frivolous Lady Beckinhall would prefer adventure novels to scandalous biographies?”
For a moment—only a moment—she dropped the facade and smiled at him almost shyly.
He smiled back, his heart beating in triple time.
Then she looked away, biting her lip. “Oh, where has the time gone? I think that’s enough for today, don’t you? I’ll come to the home tomorrow and we can continue your studies there.”
He didn’t bother arguing. He’d obviously pushed her as far as she could go today. Instead, feeling protective, he stood and bowed, and with a few murmured words left her.
But as the butler showed him the door, Winter wondered: Who was uncovering who in their little game?
ISABEL SAT AT her vanity that night brushing her hair, having already dismissed Pinkney for the evening. She was playing a dangerous game, she knew, with Mr. Makepeace. He wasn’t of her station, wasn’t even the same age as she. Yet she was strangely addicted to his intent regard. It was heady, being the focus of such a serious man. No man had ever looked at her the way Winter Makepeace did—not her lovers, and certainly not her husband.
She lowered her brush. Was that why she found herself wanting to provoke him into… what? Dropping his mask, perhaps?
Odd thought. For now that she considered it, his bluntness of speech rather reminded her of another man—the masked Ghost of St. Giles. He, too, had declined light flirtation for more direct conversation with her. How bizarre that Mr. Makepeace, a staid schoolmaster, should remind her of the roguish Ghost of St. Giles.
A movement in the mirror caught her eye. The drapes on the bed behind her twitched.
Isabel set her brush down on the vanity, turned, and looked at the bed. “Christopher?”
There was a pause and she began to wonder if she’d been mistaken, and then a small voice said, “Ma’am?”
She sighed. “Christopher, I think I’ve told you before that you mustn’t hide in my rooms.”
Silence.
Isabel stared at the bed, perplexed. What if he refused to come out? Should she have the boy pulled from the bed? Spanked by his nanny? Damn it, where was Carruthers?
The curtains rustled again as if small fingers had trailed across them. “I like it here.”
She looked away, biting her lip, tears smarting in her eyes. He was only a small boy. Surely she could deal with a small boy?
She inhaled. “It’s past your bedtime.”
“Can’t sleep.”
She looked about the room as if searching for help. “I’ll send for some warm milk.”
“Don’t like milk.”
She stared at the curtain, exasperated. “What do you like?”
“Can…” She could hear the hesitation in his little voice and it made her heart squeeze. “Can you tell me a story, my lady?”
A story. Her mind was a blank. All she could think of was Cinderella, and she had the feeling that a little boy wouldn’t be interested in the exploits of a girl and a handsome prince. She looked down, thinking, and saw the brush.
Isabel cleared her throat. “Have you heard of the Ghost of St. Giles?”
The curtain paused in its twitching. “A ghost? A real ghost?”
“Well…” She knit her brows in thought. “No, he’s a living man, but he moves like a ghost and he hunts at night like a ghost.”
“Who does he hunt?”
“Wicked men,” she replied, sure of her ground now. She’d heard the stories of the Ghost ravaging maidens and kidnapping ladies, but having actually met the man, she was sure that the stories were false. “He punishes thieves and footpads and those who prey on the innocent.”
“Pray like in church?”
“No. Prey like a cat catching a mouse.”
“Oh.”
She glanced at the bed and saw that Christopher had parted the curtain. One brown eye peeped out at her.
Isabel tried a smile. “Now, I really think you must go to bed, Christopher.”
“But that wasn’t a story,” he pointed out.
Her chest tightened in near panic. “It’s the best I can do for now.”
“Are you my mother?” That single brown eye was wide and unblinking.
She had to look away first. “You know I’m not. I’ve told you so before.” She got up and briskly opened the curtains to her bed, careful not to touch the boy. “Shall I ring for Carruthers or can you find the nursery yourself?”
“M’self.” He jumped down from the bed and walked slowly to her door. “G’night, my lady.”
Her voice was husky when she replied. “Good night, Christopher.”
Luckily, she held back the tears until he’d shut the door behind him.
“LADY BECKINHALL’S CARRIAGE is outside,” Mary Whitsun said as she entered the home’s sitting room the next afternoon.
Winter looked up from the letter he was reading just in time to see a little white and black terrier trot into the room as if he owned the place.
“Oh, come here, Dodo,” Mary exclaimed. She bent and picked up the dog, who submitted without even a halfhearted growl.
Winter raised an eyebrow, impressed. Dodo had continued his warning growl whenever he came near. “Has Peach come down?”
“No, sir,” Mary said regretfully. “She’s still abed and not speaking, poor thing. But Dodo here has decided to explore the home. Just this morning Mistress Medina had to chase the dog away from some tarts she had cooling on a table in the kitchen.”
“Ah.” Winter eyed the terrier, who’d shut his eyes as if ready for a nap in Mary Whitsun’s arms. “We’d best assign some of the little boys to look after him and see he goes into the alley to do his business. Can you see to it, Mary?”
“Yes, sir.”
The girl turned to the door, but Winter had remembered something. “Just a moment, Mary.”
She looked at him. “Sir?”
He rummaged in the papers on his lap before finding a small, folded letter. This he held out to Mary. “My sister enclosed a note to you in her letter to me.”
The girl’s face lit up, and Winter realized with a start that Mary Whitsun was growing into a lovely young lady. They were going to have to watch the lads around her in another couple of years. “Oh, thank you, sir!”
&nb
sp; She snatched the letter from him and was out the door before Winter could protest that he hadn’t done anything worth being thanked for.
He’d just bundled the letter together when the door opened again. Lady Beckinhall swept in, already taking off her bonnet, followed by her lady’s maid holding a basket. Behind them was a spare little man in a beautifully cut peach silk suit.
Winter rose and bowed. “Good afternoon, my lady.”
“Good afternoon.” She turned to her lady’s maid. “Send for some tea, will you, please, Pinkney?” She glanced back at Winter as she took the basket from Pinkney and set it on a table. “I’ve brought the most lovely little iced cakes. You must have three at least.”
He raised an eyebrow and said mildly, “I just ate luncheon.”
“But not enough, I’ll wager,” she said, eyeing his middle disapprovingly.
“Do you have plans to fatten me up, my lady?”
“Among other things,” she said airily. She wore a deep blue and white striped dress today, which brought out the blue of her eyes.
Winter tore his gaze away from her form. “And who is this?” he asked, nodding at the little man in the peach suit.
“Your tailor.” Lady Beckinhall smiled sweetly. “Kindly take off your breeches.”
The lady’s maid walked back in as she said this. Naturally the maid giggled before slapping a hand over her mouth and retiring to a chair in the corner.
Winter looked at Lady Beckinhall. “If I’m truly to be measured for a suit, perhaps you and your maid should leave before I disrobe.”
She sniffed as she withdrew a blue-flowered plate from her basket and began laying dainty little iced cakes on it. “Pinkney and I are quite capable of turning our backs, I assure you.”
His mouth tightened as he tried to tamp down the alarm in his chest. “I would prefer you leave.”
“And I would prefer to stay in case Mr. Hurt needs to consult with me over the cut of the suit I wish him to make.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. Besides the impropriety of undressing in the same room as two women, there was the possibility that the tailor would see his scars—most notably the one from last week—and ask inconvenient questions.
But she was busy ignoring him. Two girls had entered with the requested tea and now Lady Beckinhall directed them in setting it out.
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