“Nowhere?” He made a disappointed noise. “A little more specific, please.” She hesitated, and he added, “Nowhere is so large a place.”
“Here, there, everywhere, nowhere.” She shrugged. “No place special.”
“Ah.” He looked at her a moment. “Have you been a thief all your life?”
Vivian straightened her back in affront. “Most. Beats starving to death.” This time he didn’t move as she reached for the cup again. Oh, joy, thought Vivian, unable to keep from drinking it straight off in one long sip.
“Did you ever starve?” he asked, and Vivian jumped. She had forgotten about him for a moment. She shrugged again, putting the little cup back on the table.
“A bit.” She gave him a challenging glare. “Did you, your rich-and-mightiness?”
He started, then laughed. “Have I ever starved? More than once, love. But not always for food.” His smile was wicked as he poured more chocolate. “Have you another name, Miss Vivian? Or is it Mrs.?”
She sniffed. “Aye, so you can hand me to the charleys?”
That sinful smile lingered on his lips. “Have I set the charleys on you yet?” She just glared at him. The little cup of chocolate sat at his elbow, wisps of steam curling from the rich brown froth. Her nose twitched involuntarily.
“Well, why haven’t you?” she sneered, annoyed that he was just letting that cupful go to waste. “You said you would if I didn’t hand over your bloody ring. I haven’t got it, as you can see. Call the ruddy charleys, you lying bastard.”
He leaned back in his chair. He seemed in a very good humor this evening, unruffled by anything she said. “But then they would take you away, my dear. We’ve hardly gotten to know each other at all.”
Vivian snorted, retreating to the other side of the table and examining the dinner dishes. It would all smell much more enticing if not for the smell of that undrunk cup of chocolate. Any other night, the roasted chicken would have made her mouth water. Tonight she poked at it half-heartedly.
“For instance, I only just learned your true name,” he went on. “All this time I could only think of you as Mrs. Gray. A bit formal, don’t you think, given that you don’t seem the least bit inclined to leave me and I cannot bear the thought of anyone taking you away?” Vivian snorted again, finally digging into the chicken. “And now I shall call you Vivian.”
The way he said her name was wrong. He rolled the first part around his tongue, as if tasting it, then said the second on a low murmur. No one said her name like that, and Vivian wasn’t sure she liked it. She wasn’t sure she didn’t like it, either, but it was somewhat unsettling when he said it that way, looking at her that way. Simon called her Viv, and Flynn called her Miss V, when he didn’t just call her girl. She picked up the piece of chicken and retreated a step. “And I shall call you a knave, just as I always have.”
He grinned, leaning forward again. “I’ve been called worse. The way you say it is so charming, though. I think I like it.” She stared at him in disbelief. The blighter was mad, that’s what he was; he was flirting with her. With her! “In case you should ever grow tired of it, though,” he went on casually, “my proper name is David. David Reece, at your service, madam.”
She curled her lip at him in disdain. “You’re a wretched host, Mr. Reece.”
“How so?”
She dropped the chicken bone back on the plate. “You took the only chair, that’s how. Not much of a gentleman, are you?” She smirked. “Not that I expect you’re much worth the name, being a lying, cheating, guttersnipe of a kidnapper as you are.”
He looked thunderstruck for a moment, then slapped his hand down on the table with a crack, making her jump. “By Jove, you’re right!” He was on his feet and at her side before Vivian could move. “Allow me, madam.” He caught her arms and steered her toward the chair, where he all but pushed her into it. His hands were big and strong, and Vivian was again aware how easily he could pick her up and do whatever he wished with her person. Although…His grip was firm but not rough. He had never really hurt her, and Vivian realized he wouldn’t. She had no good reason for it, but somehow she was certain he wouldn’t hurt her—unless perhaps she provoked him, and she had learned her lesson on that score. Still, she sat as far back as possible in the chair as he towered over her. Then she gave a squeak of alarm as he went down on his knee in front of her, folded his arms, and rested his elbows on the ends of the chair arms.
“Better?” he asked, his eyes alight with devilish amusement. “May I assist you in any other way? More chocolate, perhaps?”
“Aye,” Vivian gasped, clutching at anything that would make him move away from her. Instead, he leaned closer, and Vivian retreated, digging her toes into the carpet in a vain effort to push herself even further backward.
“Tell me your name,” he said softly. His face was on level with hers, and Vivian couldn’t see anything else.
“Why do you want to know?”
He cocked his head, those piercing dark eyes fixed on hers. “Because I like you, Vivian,” he said slowly. “Believe me or not, I do.”
“I’m not a trinket you can keep just because you like me!”
The corner of his mouth went up, and his gaze turned lazy, speculative and seductive. “No, you’re not,” he said in a low voice. “By God, you are not.”
She flushed. He sounded rather more appreciative of that fact than she’d intended. He sounded as though he would like to explore just what she was, with great thoroughness. She jerked her head away, fixing her gaze on the door. “Aye,” she said flatly. “Then go away and leave me in peace, if you’re wanting to be so gentlemanly all of a sudden.”
“Ah, but you’ve not finished your chocolate.” He reached back to the table and picked up the little cup. Steam no longer rose from the surface, but it still smelled wonderful. He held the little cup up between them. “All I want is your name, Vivian,” he coaxed.
Vivian drew a strangled breath; she felt closed in by his presence. Up close he even smelled rich, and overpoweringly male. She could see the pulse in his neck where his cravat had been pulled loose, a strong steady beat that made her own heart beat faster. The bloody knave had to be one of the handsomest rogues she’d ever laid eyes on, for all that he was a black-hearted devil, she thought in helpless fury.
“Beecham,” she said at last, hating her voice for being so scratchy and quavering. He’d think she was swooning in a passion for him! “Vivian Beecham. Take your ruddy chocolate and leave me alone.” She was determined not to look at him, but when he didn’t move, she lost her patience and shot him a poisonous glare. “Now what?”
The heat had faded from his face. He searched her expression for a moment, then lifted one of her hands and placed the warm cup in it. “A very fine pleasure to meet you, Miss Beecham,” was all he said. Without another word, he got to his feet and left, sketching a little bow at the door.
Vivian frowned in unease. What had she done? What had he done? Mr. Reece, she remembered he was named: David Reece. David. She lifted the cup and drained it. Her eyes fell on the chocolate pot still on the table, and when she lifted it, it was promisingly heavy. She poured some more, but it wasn’t frothy, as it had been when he poured it, and it was getting cold. She put the cup aside and regarded the two trays, the half-empty dinner tray and the other one. The chocolate tray for a highway thief who wouldn’t give him what he wanted.
For the first time since he’d locked her up, Vivian wasn’t hungry anymore.
David rang for his own dinner, his mood at once euphoric and strangely thoughtful. He’d gotten Mrs. Gray to talk, and mostly she’d said just what he expected: a string of curses and slurs on his character, no more nor less than he deserved. He had a proper name for her now, though: Vivian Beecham. An oddly fanciful name for a common thief, he thought, but somehow it suited her. A face like hers was far from common.
It was that expressive face that was giving him pause. He’d seen the scorn in those fine blue eyes when he had
asked about starving. He knew she must have been hungry just from looking at her, a little slip of a woman with none of the soft roundness a well-fed lady would have. But knowing it and hearing her admit it, almost defiantly, as if it were his fault in some way, were different things. Suppose she was starving when she got on the coach that day. Suppose she’d viewed his signet ring as nothing more than a month of good food. What else could a starving girl do to feed herself? She was too pretty, he supposed, to be hired in any decent household. She had the talent for Drury Lane, but perhaps not the temperament. What else was there? Seamstress work, perhaps, or selling things in the market. Selling herself in the market would bring her the most money, though, and David didn’t like that image at all. His instinct said she didn’t do that; she was uncomfortable when he moved close to her, and she never once tried to charm anything out of him.
He finished his dinner and sat with his feet stretched out to the fire while he drank his wine, the bottle nestled in the chair beside him. The nights were beginning to carry a chill of autumn, and he made a note to lay a fire in her room.
She was quite a puzzle to David. She was a thief, and by rights he ought to deliver her to the authorities. It was highly doubtful he would ever see that ring again—odds were it had already been sold and melted down—and there was almost surely nothing to gain by keeping her locked in his house. A wiser, more practical man would let her go.
But David had never been particularly wise or practical. It was true what he had told her: he did like her. The range of emotion that showed on her face made him want to laugh, from her fiery outrage at him to her sly satisfaction when she thought she’d bested him to her rapturous pleasure when he offered her a taste of the chocolate. David wanted to see that last expression again, and not over a cup of chocolate.
He poured the last of the wine into his glass. He would deal with the question of letting her go later. For now, he was too pleased at finally getting her to speak to him to contemplate her leaving. Tomorrow he’d get her to smile, and the day after, to laugh. He wanted to see her laugh, with her head thrown back and her eyes alight with it. Her skin flushed with it. Her chest heaving. Her hands pressed to her bosom, pulling at the fastenings of her dress. His mouth, pressed to the beating pulse at the base of her throat…
David slid a little lower in his chair and smiled in tipsy contemplation. No, he most certainly wasn’t ready to let go of Vivian Beecham yet.
Chapter Ten
From that night on, he came to visit her more often. Every evening, in fact, and often he stayed and talked to her for hours. Some nights he seemed bent on teasing her until Vivian wanted to scream and throw things at him, which appeared to amuse him to no end. Some nights he asked her opinions of things she had never considered a man would think important, and listened to her with every appearance of attention. Some nights he told her stories about his youth and family in which his role was less than noble. She was hard put not to laugh when he told her about the time he cut all the roses in the garden and was chased into the lake by an irate gardener. She did laugh when he related how his younger sister, at the time a small child, smeared his face with her mother’s rouge in retaliation for his eating the last of the currant buns. “I’d no idea they were promised to her,” he protested with a wounded air as Vivian laughed. “And I was utterly famished.”
“You wicked knave,” she said, picturing him with streaks of red across his face, and finding it very entertaining and strangely endearing.
“My dear, if you think that’s wicked, I shall have to spare you the rest of my life history.”
“Aye, that’s wicked, I say, eating the last of someone’s currant buns. I expect the rest is a mere trifle next to it.”
He chuckled. “If only the rest of my family were so understanding! Celia eventually forgave me for the currant buns, but not until I apologized on my knees and promised to let her have my custard at dinner.”
Vivian laughed, too, finding with some surprise that she wasn’t angry with him anymore, either. True, he had locked her up; but she had never been so pampered in her life. Not only fine food and a fine bed, but hot baths, chocolate, and amusing conversation, all things she could become accustomed to in no time. She didn’t know if he was aware that his servant smuggled books out of his library for her, but Vivian somehow didn’t think he would mind. He no longer tried to tease the whereabouts of his ring out of her, and at times Vivian even forgot why she was in his house in the first place. She didn’t quite know what he was about, bringing her sweets and spending hours charming her, but she was not immune to it. She was beginning to like the bloody rogue, damn him.
She still thought about how she would escape, of course. There was still Simon to consider, as well as the fact that Vivian trusted no one, let alone the too-charming David Reece. But she thought about escape far less often, and about David far more often. It was perhaps weak and disloyal of her, but she couldn’t help it. Her antipathy was waning, and she was no longer certain that was wrong. The truth of the matter was, David was nice to her—nicer than anyone had been in a long time. It was hard to hate him under those circumstances, no matter what his motive.
He was nice to her, and he made her laugh regularly. She knew he was striving to amuse her, and she initially tried not to let him, but he kept at it until she succumbed. She couldn’t guess why he cared to make her laugh, but he did. She also found it was hard to hate someone who lifted her spirits so much. The harder she tried to resist his good humor, the more droll he grew, until she would collapse in helpless laughter. It simply wasn’t fair, she thought in frustration. Her life before seemed completely dour and grim, and now she found herself anticipating his arrival every day with something very near pleasure. She never knew quite what to expect from him, but he managed not to disappoint her once.
“Congratulate me,” he demanded one night upon bursting into her room, throwing his arms wide. “I’ve gone and done a brilliant thing today.” Without waiting for her reply, he swept an elegant bow and caught her hand, bringing it to his lips for a courtly kiss. “Never let anyone say I haven’t got any genius, because today, I proved I have.” He strode back across the room and flung open the door, shouting for his servant to bring another chair. Then he swung around to face her again. “I hope you don’t mind, I’ve decided to dine with you tonight.”
Vivian clutched her kissed hand to her stomach and watched in confusion as the creaky old servant dragged in another chair and shoved it up to the table. Brilliant? Genius? What on earth was he talking of? The servant carried in a tray, staggering under the weight of it, and David took it from him. “Go on, then, Bannet,” he declared. “Take yourself off for the evening, and have a glass of port as well.”
“Yes, sir.” The man bowed slightly, then left the room. David turned to her again, grinning broadly, and produced a bottle of wine.
“A celebration of sorts,” he said, uncorking it and filling two glasses. “It’s a near miracle when I amaze myself, so the occasion must be observed in some fashion. A toast.” He raised his glass.
Vivian took the glass he handed her. “What did you do?”
“Don’t sound so suspicious.” He shook his head in reproach.
“And why shouldn’t I?” She sniffed the wine in the glass. “Have you got another woman locked up now?”
He lowered his glass, looking genuinely shocked. “No. Of course not. That was an exceptional circumstance…” He flipped one hand, and cleared his throat. “No, indeed, it is something much better than that. I have bought Dashing Dancer.” He extended his arms again and bowed, as an actor might after giving a brilliant performance. Vivian waited, but he said nothing more, simply stood there expectantly.
“What dashing dancer?” she asked.
“What Dashing Dancer?” he repeated. “The only Dashing Dancer. The finest colt ever to run the Ascot. He lost out to an inferior horse because his rider was an absolute incompetent, but that horse has blood that will sire a legion of cha
mpions. My brother’s been after him for a year, but old Camden wouldn’t sell. And now, he has—to me.”
“You bought a horse?” she said cautiously. “That’s how you amaze yourself?”
He threw up his hand in exasperation. “It is amazing! I might have known a woman wouldn’t grasp the significance.”
Vivian cocked her head. “Did you get him on the cheap, then?”
He laughed. “Most certainly not.”
“Then no, I don’t grasp the significance.”
David sighed loudly. “My brother has wanted that horse for his stables for a long time,” he explained. “A very long time. He’s made at least two offers for the horse, both of which were refused. Very few people refuse my brother anything, ever. And now I have succeeded where he failed. It is quite possible I have never in my life been able to say that before now.”
“Oh,” said Vivian. “All right. Congratulations to you.”
He peered at her a moment longer in disbelief, then threw back his head and laughed. “I was well pleased by it at least, if you are not. Come, shall we dine?”
“I don’t mean to make light of it,” said Vivian as he pulled out a chair.
“No, no. I suppose in the sweep of life, it’s nothing.” He smiled wryly. “It was merely the achievement of finally, at long last, besting my brother. We’re twins, you see. He is the good one, I am the wicked one.”
A twin. Lord help the women of London, with two such men about. “He’s all good, and you’re all wicked?” She said it with a grin, intending to tease him. But he considered it, then nodded.
“Yes, I believe most people would say that’s so.”
Vivian frowned. “No one is all good.”
“I notice you don’t dispute one can be all wicked.” He bowed slightly. “Won’t you be seated?”
Oh Lord. He was holding out the chair for her. Vivian walked around the table and sat, reduced to shy silence by the gesture. He took the other chair and poured more wine, though she’d taken but a sip of hers. She stole a glance at him in the candlelight as he busied himself arranging the rest of the table, clearing away the trays and covers. For a fine gentleman, he seemed well able to take care of himself. She’d always supposed such folk were unable and unwilling to do aught for themselves, but had twenty servants lined up to do everything. So far, David had tended to her as devotedly as a man to his bride.
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