A Lady's Code of Misconduct (Rules for the Reckless #5)(9)

“You don’t trust my uncle,” she said abruptly.

“Oh, are we talking again?” He crossed his legs. “Excellent. So tell me, where did you intend to go, once you had your fortune in your hands?”

“Has he given you cause for mistrust, or do you suspect people as a general policy?”

“You first,” he said.

“I intended to move to New York.” She shrugged. “Unmarried women have far more freedom in America. It’s only the married ones who have to behave. Your turn.”

So she didn’t want to behave. Was this a recent desire? She’d certainly done a brilliant job of playing the pushover. “I trust no one,” he said. “Especially my friends.”

“I expect that’s wise, since friendship with you suggests something very troubling about their characters.”

The smile he gave her appeared to make her uneasy. She shrank back a little into the deep cushions on her bench.

Interesting effect. He let his smile widen further, and watched her gaze drop from his and her chest rise on a sudden deep breath.

Well, wasn’t this delightful? The goose was attracted to him. Very useful to know. Indeed, the more sharp angles he uncovered in her, the more intrigued he felt. She wasn’t actually as plain as Philip Mason hoped. Her skin was clear, her hazel eyes large and brilliant, and even the untamed spirals of her dark hair had a certain winsome charm, now that he could read them as metonyms for her frustrated desires.

“You have a dark view of my character,” he said. What a terribly uncomfortable quandary for her, to want him and loathe him at once. He wondered if the struggle kept her awake at night.

She licked her lips, and he felt a stirring of animal interest. The idea of touching her, of tempting her into surrendering to a wholly reluctant attraction, beckoned him. Why not? His family—and several others besides—already believed him well versed in worse.

“I don’t think you much care about my opinion of you,” she said.

“That’s true.” Others’ opinions were so often wrong that to set store by them was idiocy. But living up to those baseless opinions—ah, now, that could make a fine game. “More to the point, your view is quite correct. I’m not a good man, Miss Mason. I do not deserve your approval.”

A line appeared between her dark brows. She studied him a moment, in which he let his own gaze dip to her lips, which were pink and prettily shaped.

She averted her face. “You have no shame.”

“None. Why would I? It’s a useless quality, and deadly to one’s ambitions.”

“I think ambitions can coexist with decency,” she said quietly.

“Indeed? Pray tell, what have you aspired to, Miss Mason?”

She clearly registered his mockery, for she refused to look at him now. He let the moment draw out, gauging his next dose of it with an eye to how it would best serve to disarm her.

“Oh, forgive me,” he said apologetically. “I suppose you are thinking of your needlepoint. That tapestry, by the way, was very clever. But ugly. I recommend you stick to flowers.”

“It was needlepoint, Mr. Burke. Tapestries are woven, you see, and I find it far more satisfying to stab than to weave.”

“Needlepoint!” He was amazed. “Good God, that must have taken you . . .” He could not begin to guess how long.

“Ten months,” she said. “It was so difficult to abandon the social whirl.”

Her sarcasm was cutting. Mason did not allow her to set foot outside the estate. To Crispin’s knowledge, she had been cloistered at Marylebigh since her parents’ death.

“Well,” he said. “No wonder I haven’t seen you recently.”

“Oh, the needlepoint wasn’t to blame for that.” She offered him a brilliant smile. “I strive to avoid you.”

Was that meant to wound him? He laughed. “Amazing. And yet you still made time for your little letters to the newspapers.”

Shock widened her eyes. She mastered it quickly, but not before he had the satisfaction of glimpsing it.

“Goodness,” he said. “Didn’t you know? Mason quite enjoys them. But you can’t blame him for your failure to be published.” A lie. The editors, being an unprincipled lot, knew that discarding the letters would earn a handy fee from her uncle. “At any rate, it seems your talents lie elsewhere. Do keep looking, sweetheart.”

Her pause seemed promising, filled with self-doubt. But then she startled him by saying in a low voice, “Maybe I have no brain for politics, then. But I mean to keep trying anyway.”

Her resolve made him feel irritated and weary all at once. “Without any conviction of talent? That sounds like a great waste of time.”

“I don’t think so.” She met his eyes, her expression solemn. “I do find my thoughts worth sharing, sir. I think the fault must lie with the listeners. But even if I were a fool . . . it would still be worth the effort to think.”

Where had this woman come from? Her voice was made of steel and her dignity, unbreakable.

“You’ve been having a good deal of fun,” he said slowly, “haven’t you? Convincing the world that you’re a mouse.”

“I haven’t yet had a chance to convince the world of anything.” She did not so much as blink. “You may notice that I spend all year here. If my ideas are small-minded, then they reflect my experience. But that must change—now, soon. So bear in mind, Mr. Burke, that whatever friendship I have offered you, it will expire within the year. One way or another, I will escape my uncle’s household.”