Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(83)

Christopher counted. “Four.”

“And there are three of us,” Winter said. “So three times four is…?”

Christopher’s eyes darted between the plates before his entire little face lit up. “Twelve! Three times four is twelve, Mr. Makepeace!”

“Quite so, Christopher,” he said with approval. “And now, Lady Beckinhall, we may eat our cakes.”

“Huzzah!” cried Christopher as he attempted to stuff an entire fairy cake into his mouth.

Well. Table manners were a subject they could discuss later.

He watched Isabel take a dainty bite of her cake, licking a crumb from the corner of her mouth, and felt his loins tighten. He’d hidden it well, he thought, but living in the same house as her, taking his meals with her—as she’d insisted—even simply breathing the same air was next to agony.

Winter grimly took a bite of cake and chewed. He’d vowed not to mention the subject of marriage again until she became used to the idea. Obviously he’d proposed much too soon for her tastes. Thus, he must play a waiting game, gradually letting her become accustomed to his presence in her life. And, he’d decided, it was best to abstain from sex during that time. A decision he was beginning to regret.

“Would you like some more tea?” She leaned over to pour herself another cup of tea, the movement affording him a wonderful view of her bosom. “Mr. Makepeace?”

He brought his gaze back up. She was blinking at him innocently. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

This wait might very well kill him.

She smiled as she poured tea into his cup. “I hope you find your rooms comfortable?”

“Quite.” He took a too-hasty sip of tea and scalded his tongue.

“The view is to your liking?”

He had a view of a brick wall. “Indeed.”

She fluttered her eyelashes at him over the rim of her teacup. “And the bed. Is it soft and… yielding?”

He nearly choked on the bite of cake he’d just taken.

“Or do you prefer a firmer bed?” she asked sweetly. “One that refuses to yield too soon?”

“I think”—he narrowed his eyes at her—“whatever mattress I have on the bed you gave me is perfect. But tell me, my lady, what sort of mattress do you prefer? All soft goose down or one that’s a bit… harder?”

It was very fast, but he saw it: Her gaze flashed down to the juncture of his thighs and then up again. If there hadn’t been anything to see there before, there certainly was now.

“Oh, I like a nice stiff mattress,” she purred. “Well warmed and ready for a long ride.”

His nostrils flared involuntarily, for he swore he could scent her—soft and ready for him. If they were alone, if there was a bed nearby or even—

“Why do you ride your mattress, my lady?” Christopher asked indistinctly around a mouthful of cake. “I like to sleep in my bed.”

“Um…” Isabel squinted as she tried to find an answer to the innocent inquiry.

“Lady Beckinhall sleeps in her bed as well, Christopher,” Winter said without any emphasis at all. “Now remember not to speak with your mouth full and have some more tea.”

The boy happily held out his cup.

Winter filled it, carefully not looking at Isabel. If only he could distract his appetites as easily as he did Christopher…

Chapter Sixteen

At long last the Harlequin’s True Love heard a shout and the sound of men in combat. Instead of fleeing the violence, she crept closer, peering around a corner. There in a small square, she saw the Harlequin fighting five men at once. The men about him shouted and grunted with the exertion of their labor, but the Harlequin made not a sound himself as he methodically cut his enemies down, one by one…

—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles

Isabel lay in bed that night, her silk coverlet pulled to her chin, and wondered what she was doing. She’d rejected Winter—told him flatly that she could not marry him. With any other man, the news might’ve been met with relief: He could continue a clandestine affair with her without the commitment of matrimony. His choices then were either to continue as they were or to break the thing off.

Instead he’d managed to move into her household.

She wasn’t naïve. The man was stubborn and proud. He hadn’t given up his ridiculous notion of marrying her. Perhaps he really did love her.

She closed her eyes in the darkness, her heart squeezing painfully in fear at the thought. She hadn’t let herself think it before now. It was simply too terrible to contemplate. She wasn’t like him, a person capable of deep caring. She’d shied away from strong emotions of any sort practically all her life. In her heart Isabel knew: She simply wasn’t worthy of his love. Someday he’d find that out, and when he did—

There was no sound, but she felt a movement, a shifting of the air in her room, the warmth of another presence.

Isabel opened her eyes. He was there, at the foot of her bed, a single candle in his hand, dressed only in shirtsleeves, waistcoat, and breeches.

“Forgive me,” he whispered as he set the candle down. “I could not stay away.”

She lifted herself on her elbows, her pulse beginning to speed as she watched him shrug out of his coat.

“It’s an oddity, actually,” he said, almost as if he were musing to himself. “My self-control is rather strong as a rule. I’ve managed to keep the secret of the Ghost for nine years, from both friends and family. I don’t lose my temper often. I’ve sustained wounds and never by action or word let anyone know, even if it meant cleaning and sewing up a wound myself.”