Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(22)

Christopher ducked his head. “Sorry, ’Ruthers.”

Carruthers smiled fondly. “That’s all right, Master Christopher, but I think it’s past time for your bath now if we’re to see the park this afternoon.”

The child dolefully left the room, no doubt doomed to a soapy fate.

Winter looked at Lady Beckinhall as the door closed. “I did not know you had a son, my lady.”

For a split second he was shocked to see pain on her face. Then she smiled brilliantly as if to mask whatever true emotions she might be feeling. “I don’t. I don’t have any children.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Then why—”

But she had already turned to seat herself on the settee, talking all the while. “I thought we’d start simply this morning. The Duchess of Arlington’s ball is one week away, and unless you know how to dance…?”

She obviously didn’t want to talk about the child. Interesting. He shook his head at her inquiring look.

“No, of course not,” she sighed. “Then we’ll have to begin dancing lessons very soon. You’ll need to at least know the steps—I have no hope that you’ll actually master them, but if we can get you to the point where you don’t step on a lady’s toes, I’ll be more than pleased.”

“You’re too kind,” he murmured.

Her eyes narrowed as if she’d taken exception to his dry-as-dust tone. “I think a new suit is in order as well. Perhaps something in cream or light blue silk?”

His pride balked. “No.”

Her lush lips firmed. “You can’t appear in polite society in the dingy clothes you’re wearing now. That coat looks to be at least a decade old.”

“Only four years,” he said mildly. “And I cannot accept such a lavish—such a personal—gift from you, my lady.”

She tilted her head, studying him, and he was reminded of a crow looking one way and then another to figure out how to crack a nut. “Think of it as a gift from the Ladies’ Syndicate. We appreciate the work you do for the home, and a new suit of clothes so you can move about in society is hardly a wasted extravagance.”

He wanted to decline, but her gentle argument made sense. He sighed silently. “Very well, but I must insist upon somber colors. Black or brown.”

She clearly had to bite back the urge to try and persuade him to wear something outrageous—bright pink or lavender, perhaps—but in the end she must’ve seen the wisdom of a compromise.

“Very well.” She nodded briskly. “I’ve sent for tea so we can at least practice that today. And naturally I thought we’d make conversation.”

“Naturally.”

“And while sarcasm does have its place in polite company, it’s best used in moderation,” she said sweetly. “Very strict moderation.”

There was a short silence as she held his gaze. Her blue eyes were surprisingly determined. Surprisingly strong.

Winter inclined his head. “What would you have us converse about?”

She smiled again, and he felt it deep in the pit of his belly, the pull this woman had on him. Pray it did not show upon his face.

“A gentleman often compliments a lady,” she said.

She wanted compliments from him? He searched her countenance for signs of a jest, but she seemed in earnest.

Winter sighed silently. “Your home is very… comfortable.”

He realized now that was the feeling her house exuded: a sense of comfortableness. Homey. That was what it was.

He glanced at her, rather pleased with himself.

Lady Beckinhall looked as if she were trying to restrain a smile. “I’m not sure that is exactly a compliment.”

“Why not?”

“You’re supposed to compliment a house’s decor,” she said patiently. “The taste of its mistress.”

“But I care not for decor or this taste you speak of.” He found himself invested in his argument. “Surely the quality of a home should be measured by the comfort one receives there? In which case, calling your home very comfortable is the highest of compliments.”

She tilted her head as if considering his words. “I suppose you are quite correct. One should be comfortable in a home. I thank you then for your kind compliment.”

Odd, her accession to his argument lit a small flame of warmth in his breast. Naturally, he made no indication of this. Instead, he inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“But,” she continued, “society places no value on comfort in a home, so as kind as your words are to me, they will not do in a ballroom or musicale, as I think you already know.”

The door opened behind him and a phalanx of maids entered bearing tea trays.

He waited until the maidservants had placed their burdens down and been dismissed.

Then he looked at her, this woman too intelligent for the frivolous society she wallowed in. “You would have me change my entire aspect, I see.”

She sighed and leaned forward to pour the tea. “Not entirely. Besides”—she shot him another of her quick, devastating smiles as she set down the teapot—“I doubt you’re such a frail personality as to be so easily changed. Come. Please sit down with me.”

He was still standing, despite the ache in his right leg, as if ready to either flee or fight. This woman made what social graces he had vanish.