Secrets of a Summer Night (Wallflowers #1)(50)

His expression gave nothing away. “Boots? I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning, Miss Peyton. Are you speaking in metaphor, or are we talking about actual footwear?”

“Ankle boots,” Annabelle said, staring at him with open suspicion. “A new pair that was left inside the door of my room yesterday.”

“Delighted as I am to discuss any part of your wardrobe, Miss Peyton, I’m afraid I know nothing about a pair of boots. However, I am relieved that you have managed to acquire some. Unless, of course, you wished to continue acting as a strolling buffet to the wildlife of Hampshire.”

Annabelle regarded him for a long moment. Despite his denial, there was something lurking behind his neutral facade…some playful spark in his eyes…“Then you deny having given the boots to me?”

“Most emphatically I deny it.”

“But I wonder…if some one wished to have a pair of boots made up for a lady without her knowledge…how would he be able to learn the precise size of her feet?”

“That would be a relatively simple task…” he mused. “I imagine that some enterprising person would simply ask a housemaid to trace the soles of the lady’s discarded slippers. Then he could take the pattern to the local cobbler. And make it worth the cobbler’s while to delay his other work in favor of crafting the new shoes immediately.”

“That is quite a lot of trouble for someone to go through,” Annabelle murmured.

Hunt’s gaze was lit with sudden mischief. “Rather less trouble than having to haul an injured woman up three flights of stairs every time she goes out walking in her slippers.”

Annabelle realized that he would never admit to giving her the boots—which would allow her to keep them, but would also ensure that she would never be able to thank him. And she knew he had—she could see it in his face.

“Mr. Hunt,” she said earnestly, “I…I wish…” She paused, unable to find words, and stared helplessly at him.

Taking pity on her, Hunt stood and went to the side of the room, picking up a small circular game table. It was only about two feet in diameter, constructed with a clever mechanism to allow a player to flip the top from a chessboard to a draughtsboard. “Do you play?” he asked casually, setting the table in front of her.

“Draughts? Yes, occasionally—”

“No, not draughts. Chess.”

Annabelle shook her head, shrinking back into the corner of the settee. “No, I’ve never played chess. And I don’t wish to sound uncooperative, but…the way I feel at present, I have no desire to try something as difficult as—”

“It’s time for you to learn, then,” Hunt said, heading to a niche of shelves to retrieve a polished burl-wood box. “It’s been said that you can never really know someone until you play chess with him.”

Annabelle watched him cautiously, feeling nervous at the prospect of being alone with him…and yet she was thoroughly beguiled by his deliberate gentleness. It seemed almost as if he were trying to coax her to trust him. There was a softness in his manner that seemed utterly at odds with the cynical rake she had always known him to be.

“Do you believe that?” she asked.

“Of course not.” Hunt brought the box to the table and opened it to reveal a set of onyx and ivory chessmen, carved in scrupulous detail. He slid her a provocative glance. “The truth is, you can never really know a man until you’ve loaned him money. And you can never know a woman until you’ve slept in her bed.”

He said it deliberately, of course, to shock her. And he succeeded, although Annabelle did her best to conceal it. “Mr. Hunt,” she said, frowning into his smiling eyes, “if you continue to make vulgar remarks, I will be forced to ask you to leave the parlor.”

“Forgive me.” His instant contrition didn’t fool her in the least. “It’s just that I can’t resist the opportunity to make you blush. I’ve never known a woman to do it as often as you do.”

The bloom that had begun at her throat flamed up to her hairline. “I never blush. It’s only around you that I—” Breaking off, she stared at him with an indignant frown that made him laugh.

“I’ll behave for now,” he said. “Don’t tell me to leave.”

She stared at him indecisively, passing an unsteady hand over her forehead, and the sign of her physical frailty caused him to speak even more gently. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “Let me stay, Annabelle.”

Blinking, she responded with a wobbly nod and subsided against the cushions of the settee while Hunt set the board methodically. His touch on the pieces was surprisingly light and deft, considering the size of his hands. Potentially ruthless hands, she thought…tanned and masculine, with a light dusting of black hair on the backs.

Half-standing over her as Hunt was, Annabelle became aware of the intriguing scent of him, the whisper of starch and shaving soap overlaying the fragrance of clean male skin…and there was something more elusive…some sweet tang to his breath, as if he had recently eaten pears, or perhaps a slice of pineapple. As she looked up at him, she realized that with very little effort he could have bent down and kissed her. The thought caused her to tremble. She actually wanted to feel his mouth on hers, to inhale the ephemeral touch of sweetness on his breath. She wanted him to hold her again.