Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(33)

St. John raised his eyebrows. “Does she know your intent?”

“She will.” And Lazarus turned and caught Mrs. Dews’s arm, interrupting her in midspeech. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I wish to find Mrs. Dews the best seat possible.”

“Of course,” Sir Henry murmured, but Lazarus was already steering her away from the others.

“What are you about?” Mrs. Dews looked none too pleased with him. “I had just begun discussing the amount of fresh vegetables we buy every month for the home.”

“A most interesting topic, I have no doubt.” He needed to sit down, to rest a bit. Damn the wound in his shoulder.

Her brows knit. “Was I boring them? Is that why you intervened?”

His mouth twitched in amusement. “No. They seemed more than happy to listen to you lecture them on clothing and feeding urchins for the rest of the night.”

“Humph. Then why did you take me away?”

“Because ’tis always better to leave the buyer wanting,” he whispered into the dark hair over her ear. The silly red ribbon twined in and out of the glossy locks, and for a wild moment, he wanted to tug it free. To watch as her hair came tumbling down about her shoulders.

She turned and looked up, so close he could see the flecks of gold in her light brown eyes. “And have you sold very many things, Lord Caire?”

She was teasing him, this proper Christian woman. Did she have no fear of him? Did she not sense the darkness that bubbled deep within him?

“Not things so much as… ideas,” he drawled.

She cocked her head, those gilded eyes curious. “You’ve sold ideas?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he said as he guided her toward two chairs at the end of a row near the front. “I belong to a number of philosophical and scientific societies.” He seated her and flicked apart the skirts of his coat to sit beside her. “When one argues a point, one is in effect selling it to the opposition, if you understand me.”

He didn’t mention the other type of “selling” he did—the luring of sexual partners into performing actions they would in other circumstances never contemplate.

“I think I comprehend your meaning.” Mrs. Dews’s eyes lit with amusement. “I confess, I’d not seen you in the role of idea merchant, Lord Caire. Is that what you do with your days? Argue with other learned gentlemen?”

“And translate various Greek and Latin manuscripts.”

“Such as?”

“Poetry, mostly.” He glanced at her. Did she really find this interesting?

But her golden eyes sparkled as she cocked her head. “You write poetry?”

“I translate it—quite different.”

“Actually, I would think it somewhat similar.”

“How so?”

She shrugged. “Don’t poets have to worry over meter, rhyme, and the proper words?”

“So I’m told.”

She looked at him and smiled, making him catch his breath. “I would think the translator would have to worry over those things as well.”

He stared. How did she know, this simple woman from another walk of life entirely? How had she with one sentence articulated the passion he found in his translations? “I suppose you have a point.”

“You hide a poet’s soul well,” she said. “I would never have guessed it.”

She was definitely teasing him now.

“Ah.” He stretched his long legs before him. “But then there’s quite a lot you don’t know about me, Mrs. Dews.”

“Is there?” Her gaze skipped over his shoulder, and he knew she looked at his mother in conversation with Lady Beckinhall in the corner. “Such as?”

“I have an unnatural fondness for marzipan sweetmeats.”

He felt more than heard her giggle, and the small, innocent sound sent a frisson of warmth through him. She hid her emotions so well usually, even the joyous ones.

“I haven’t had marzipan sweetmeats in ages,” she murmured.

He had a sudden urge to buy her a boxful just to watch her eat them. Her red lips would become sprinkled with the sugar and she’d have to lick them clean. His groin tightened at just the thought.

“Tell me something else about yourself. Something true.” She watched him, those pale brown eyes mysterious. “Where were you born?”

“Shropshire.” He looked away, watching as his mother made some comment to another lady. The jewels in her white hair sparkled as she tilted her head. “My family’s seat is near Shrewsbury. I was born at Caire House, our ancestral home. I’m told that I was a puling, weakly babe, and my father sent me away to the wet nurse with little hope that I would live out the sennight.”

“It sounds as if your parents were worried for you.”

“No,” he said flatly, the knowledge as old as his bones. “I stayed with my nurse for five years, and in that time, my parents saw me only once a year, on Easter day. I remember because my father used to scare me witless.”

He had no idea why he told her this; it hardly showed him in a heroic light.

“And your mother?” she asked softly.

He glanced at her curiously. “She accompanied my father, of course.”

“But”—her brows knit together again as if she were trying to puzzle something out—“was she affectionate?”