Her gaze again flicked down to his lips. "Based on what you just told me and what happened between us last night… I know more about you than that, Gideon."
Another wave of heat suffused him, this one settling in his groin. "Which you'd be best to forget. As I intend to."
She shook her head and moved a step closer. "I'll never forget."
He sucked in a quick breath, and his head filled with the scent of vanilla. Want and need swamped him, threatening to overwhelm his resolve. He could—and would—remain in control. He could not—and would not—touch her. He looked into her eyes, a mistake, as they reflected a combination of confusion, hope, and such longing it seemed to rip his chest open. And evaporate his anger like a puddle in the desert.
"Will you really be able to forget?" she whispered, her gaze searching his face. "Did what we shared truly mean nothing to you?" Her bottom lip trembled. "Am I that forgettable?"
He had to fist his hands to keep from giving into the choking need to snatch her against him, a fact that bloody well irritated him, a feeling he grabbed in desperation. "As I said earlier—and you agreed—last night did not happen. We shared nothing. What is this—another hunting expedition for compliments, Princess? I suggest you ask one of your many admirers, or here's a novel idea—your fiancé—to shower you with admiring words. If you can't wait until one of them calls, go look in the mirror, wallow in your extreme loveliness"—he spat out the last two words as if they were poison—"and spout your own bloody accolades."
He didn't want to feel like a bastard for his harshness, but damn it, he did, which only served to irritate him further. Frustration built in him until he felt like a boiling caldron. He steeled himself against the hurt he expected to cloud her eyes and was surprised when unmistakable anger flared instead. Indeed, she looked as if she were ready to boil.
She stepped back several paces. "That is the second time you've accused me of wallowing in my looks, Mr. Mayne." Her lip curled when she said his name, as if it tasted bad. "Allow me to enlighten you as to why a princess such as myself doesn't wallow in her looks. After being surrounded by it my entire life, I am unimpressed by outward beauty. I find it treacherous in that it can disguise even the most disagreeable character. Rather like a gorgeous tapestry covering a writhing pit of vipers. As an example, I offer my mother. She is extraordinarily beautiful, is she not?"
Gideon hesitated several seconds then replied, "I'm sure most people would say so."
"I assure you they do. Yet unfortunately she is not a kind woman. Or a warm, loving one. I don't say that to be unkind myself, I am merely stating a fact. As you've expressed a penchant for summing things up in one word, I'd apply ruthless to my mother."
Gideon couldn't disagree, although overbearing was a close second choice to describe the woman. It had been painfully obvious since his first meeting with her that the Countess of Gatesbourne possessed a thumb the size of the entire kingdom. And she had no compunction about holding her daughter beneath that mighty thumb's weight.
"Beauty's other great failing," she continued, "is that it requires no level of talent or accomplishment. It's nothing more than an accident of birth."
"Like the fact that you're an earl's daughter. And I'm a commoner."
"Yes, although I don't think there's anything common about you. Honor, integrity, compassion, valor…they are important and lasting. And, as far as I'm concerned, they far surpass any class order."
He studied her and couldn't decide if he were puzzled, annoyed, or both. He watched her anger wither, the fire leeching from her eyes to be replaced by what appeared to be embarrassment. He'd be willing to wager that she'd never confessed such things to anyone. He'd certainly never heard any member of the aristocracy utter such sentiments.
"You must think I'm daft," she said, when he remained silent.
He continued to study her, his own anger seeping away in spite of his best efforts to hold on to it, then finally said, "I don't think you're daft. I think you're … surprising." Yes, she was. Disconcertingly so.
The urge to reach out, to cup her perfect face in his palm, a face she claimed not to admire, gripped him with such force he had to step away from her. He moved to the fireplace, putting a safe distance between them, then stared into the flames. "You cannot deny your beauty garners you much attention."
"Yes, but of what sort? My mother uses it to advance her matchmaking schemes. My father barters it to the highest bidder without regard to my feelings. And who gives me attention for it? Gentlemen who pursue me for my fortune. Who merely want an ornament upon their arm."
He sensed her approach, and his every muscle tightened. From the corner of his eye he saw her stand next to him, and he forced himself to remain staring at the fire.
"As far as I'm concerned, beauty hasn't garnered me any attention worth having," she said softly. "Nor has it gained me any true friends, although it has tossed many false ones my way." A humorless sound passed her lips. "Do you have any idea how excruciatingly hollow it is to be admired for no reason other than your reflection in the mirror?"
Unable to stop himself, he shifted his attention from the crackling flames to her. At the sight of her, looking so lost and vulnerable, the last vestiges of his anger melted away, leaving a bone-deep, aching emptiness in its place. "Hardly. If I'm admired for anything, it certainly isn't my looks."
She hiked up a brow. "Now who is guilty of false modesty and on a fishing expedition for compliments?"
A sound of disbelief escaped him. "No man whose nose has been broken twice expects compliments regarding his appearance. As for being admired for anything else…" He shrugged. "I'm good at my job. I have to be, or I'd end up dead. Although the criminals I capture aren't particularly complimentary regarding my skills."
"No, I imagine they wouldn't be. Nor, I suppose are they much taken with your good looks." A whiff of mischief twinkled in her eyes. "No doubt they'd like to rearrange them for you."
He rubbed his finger down the bridge of his nose, telling himself it was ridiculous for a man with no vanity to feel so pleased that she thought him good-looking. "Two have succeeded." He shot her a half grin. "Of course, when the dust settled, they ended up looking far worse than me."
"I've no doubt," she murmured. "How long have you been a Runner?"
"Five years."
"Do you enjoy it?"
"It … satisfies me."
"In what way?"
He turned so he faced her fully. "I like righting wrongs. Solving mysteries. Getting dangerous criminals off the streets. Seeing justice done."
"You must have experienced a great deal during those five years. Seen a great deal."
"Yes." Things she would never want to see. Things he wished he hadn't seen.
"And before Bow Street
what did you do?"
"I served in the army."
"And before that?"
"Do you always ask so many questions?"
"No. Never. Mother would be horrified at my lack of manners and restraint. However, I find myself insatiably curious about you. Your life."
"There is nothing to know. I have my work. A few trusted friends." He nodded toward the open doorway. "Caesar."
"How did you two come to be together?"
She appeared genuinely interested, and in spite of himself, he found himself relaxing and responding. "I found him."
"Where?"
"At the docks. Saw some bastard toss a basket over the side of a ship just pulling out. I knew something alive was inside, so I rescued the basket. And found Caesar. He was only a few weeks old."
Her eyes went wide with shock. "He would have drowned!" "That was the point of him being tossed over the side. Easiest way to get rid of unwanted animals."
"How horrible. And cruel."
"Yes. But it happens every day. That and worse. It's a horrible, cruel world."
"Yes, but there is also a great deal of good."
He shrugged. "In my line of work I see far more of the bad." S
he studied him, just as he'd studied her moments ago. Then she nodded slowly. "Yes, I can see that. It's in your eyes, the horrible things you've seen. They've hurt you."
Her words both surprised and unnerved him. She couldn't have seen anything in his eyes. He'd learned long ago how to turn his face into an unreadable mask. Before he could even think of a reply, she asked, "I wonder when was the last time you laughed—a real, true laugh that reached deep inside you and all the way up to your eyes. I wager it's been a long, long time."
His brows collapsed in a frown. "Don't be ridiculous. I laugh all the time." Of course he did—when there was something to laugh about. Hardly his fault that catching criminals wasn't a nonstop jest festival.
"Indeed? From what I can tell, the next time will be the first time. But don't worry. I intend to fix that."
"I'm not wor—"
"Where do you live?"
"Live?"
"Yes. Where do you make your home? Sleep at night?"
His gaze swept the chamber. "Nowhere grand like this."
"You like this room?"
"You want the truth?"
"Of course."
He looked around again. He wished he could honestly say he disliked this room, but he didn't. In spite of its size, it was somehow cozy, and he found the pale green and blue color scheme soothing. "I actually like this room. It's not o … ornate as some of the others."
Julianne nodded. "I completely agree. This is my favorite spot in the entire house. Although it's large, I find it warm and cheerful. And comforting. I love music."
"You play very well."
"Thank you." She looked toward the ceiling and heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Mother would tell you I'm a virtuoso."
His lips twitched slightly. "You're not?"
"Hardly. But I strive to better myself. Have you any musical talent?"
"None that I'm aware of. I've never tried to play any instrument and on the few occasions I've attempted to sing, Caesar put up a howl—literally. So I shut my mouth before he decided to bury me in a deep hole."
She made a tsking sound. "Terrible how criticism can discourage budding talent. What were these occasions that prompted you to sing?"
"Drunken revelry, I'm afraid."
She smothered a laugh. "I see. What songs did you sing?"
"Nothing that could be repeated to a lady."
Her eyes lit up, seeming to glow from within. "Nonsense. I've always wanted to learn a bawdy song. All the songs I know are boring. About flowers and sunshine and grass-filled meadows."
"Like the piece you were playing when I arrived?"
"You heard that?"
"Yes. Parts of it were sad. Mournful. But one part was very bright and … meadowy. What is the name of that piece?"
"I call it 'Dreams of You.'"
"What does the composer call it?"
She hesitated, then said softly, "'Dreams of You.'"
He couldn't hide his surprise. "You wrote it?"
"Yes." She looked down for several seconds then lifted her chin to meet his gaze. The shyness and vulnerability that had struck him the first time he'd looked at her stared at him now. "No one has ever heard it before. Except me." One corner of her mouth lifted. "And Princess Buttercup."
"Why?"
"I've no desire to bore anyone."
"I wasn't bored." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
"Do you know anything about music?"
"No."
She gave a quick laugh. "There you have it."
"But I know what I like. Just as I'm sure you like flowers and sunshine and grass-filled meadows."
"Why? Because I'm a princess?"
Her lip curled with such distaste on the last word he couldn't help but chuckle. "It's not an insult, you know."
Disbelief was written all over her face. "Really? I had the distinct impression it was." She gave an elegant sniff. "You certainly haven't meant it as a compliment."
Without thinking, he reached out and captured her hand. She drew in a sharp breath as he brushed the pad of his thumb over her fingertips. "Hmmm. So the kitten has claws. Interesting."
It took her several seconds to respond, and he realized the folly of touching her. Color suffused her cheeks with a captivating blush, and heat sizzled up his arm. He quickly released her hand, but his fingers curled into a fist to retain her warmth for several seconds.
"Yes, as a matter of fact she does," she said in a breathless voice. "And she greatly prefers being compared to a kitten rather than a drunken porcupine—although she'd much prefer a lioness to a kitten."
He inclined his head. "As you wish, Lioness. And to answer your question about why I would think you'd like flowers and sunshine and grass-filled meadows, it's because…"
His common sense had him hesitating, screaming at him to shut his mouth. But his lips obviously weren't listening, because seemingly of their own volition they continued to flap and spill out words that would surely appall him later. "… You're a lovely, innocent young woman who should never be touched by anything that isn't equally as lovely and innocent." Including himself.
She blinked. "That sounds suspiciously like a compliment."
"I meant it as one." And damn it, he did. What in God's name was wrong with him? Where had his anger gone? Where was the rod he'd fused to his spine to steel himself against her?
"Thank you. But I'd still like to learn a bawdy song. Will you teach me?"
"You'd be shocked."
"I hope so. I want to be shocked. I want to feel. Experience something of life."
Her eyes … bloody hell, he felt himself drowning in those clear, blue pools that shimmered with a combination of everything she'd shown him since he'd walked into this room filled with his righteous sense of betrayal and a fierce determination to keep his distance: shyness and despair, vulnerability and unexpected strength. All things he didn't want to see. Wished to hell he hadn't. He didn't want to find anything in her to like. To admire. To respect. It was so much easier to believe she was nothing more than a spoiled, vain princess enamored of her own beauty.
But clearly, she was much more.
Bloody hell.
If all he felt for her was lust, desire, he had a fighting chance to resist temptation. But if he were foolish enough to let himself feel more for her … to care for her … to allow her to scale the walls he'd built around his heart… well, then, he'd be cast adrift on stormy seas without so much as a rowboat in sight.
His anger drained away, leaving him with nothing save a deep, aching want. One that would have to go unsatisfied.
"I have very little time left before my marriage, and I don't wish to spend it in morose reflection or consumed with sadness. I want to do something. Toward that end, won't you please teach me a bawdy song? If you do, I'll teach you something in return."
He should have flatly refused. But once again his lips had a mind of their own and asked, "Such as?"
A hint of mischief touched her eyes. "Embroidery?"
"Not very useful on Bow Street
, I'm afraid."
"Ah. Then how about fisticuffs?"
"And what do you know about fisticuffs?"
"Absolutely nothing. So I'm afraid that won't do." She tapped her finger against her chin and frowned. Then brightened. "I could teach you to play a song on the pianoforte."
"I'm afraid my hands are too clumsy."
"Nonsense. I'll teach you a simple song. About flowers and sunshine and grass-filled meadows." She held out her hand. "Do we have a bargain, Mr. Mayne?"
He knew he should say no. Tell her to just read or sit in the corner. But damn it, he suddenly wanted to teach her a bawdy song. Watch her cheeks turn scarlet and that unexpected impudence to shine in her eyes. As she'd said, only a short time remained before she'd be married and gone. Why not make that time as pleasant as possible for her? Otherwise he'd feel as if he were just tossing more dirt on the glass coffin in which she'd dreamed of herself confined. He could control himself. He
would control himself.
Reaching out, he took her hand and shook it. And firmly ignored the jolt of heat that shot up his arm.
"You have a bargain, Lady Julianne. Let the lessons begin."
Chapter 15
"If I'm to learn the melody, you'll need to at least hum it," Julianne said, resting her fingers on the smooth ivory keys.
She looked up at Gideon from her seat on the piano bench. There was no doubt in her mind that the only reason he'd agreed to teach her a bawdy song was to distract her thoughts from the murders. For which she was grateful. Except that his consideration only made her admire him more. Which only made her want him more.
As had his story about the woman he'd planned to marry. The woman who'd been lucky enough to be loved by Gideon. And whom he'd so tragically lost. Whose death he'd heroically avenged. He'd shared a piece of himself she was certain he normally didn't allow people to see. Which did nothing to calm the maelstrom of emotions he evoked in her.
Which unfortunately was not good.
At the moment, however, she found herself suppressing a grin. Goodness, he did not look happy. He stood beside her, one large hand resting on the polished wood, scowling at the keys so fiercely she was surprised they didn't yell eek! and hop off the instrument and run away.
"Bow Street Runners don't hum," he informed her.
"I'm certain they do if they don't know the words."
"I know the words."
"Very well, if they're too afraid to sing the words."
His scowl deepened, and she had to bite the insides of her cheeks to refrain from laughing. "I'm not afraid. I'm being considerate. Of your ears."
"My ears are made of very stern stuff, I assure you." She lifted an eyebrow. "Are you reneging on our agreement?"
"No."
"Excellent. Besides, I don't see what you're so worried about. It's just a song. Indeed, I wonder if you've told me a Banbury tale. I don't see how a tune entitled 'Apple Dumplin' Shop' can be considered bawdy."
A glint she could only describe as devilish entered his eyes, and she caught her breath. Dear God, how was she going to refrain from begging this man to kiss her again? To touch her. To put his hands and his mouth on her. To make her feel as he had last night. She didn't want to tempt him—or beg him—to compromise his honor.
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