He’d distracted her earlier, touching, holding, almost kissing her. He’d cooked for her, readied her bed, and steered her away from her questions.
It was a kind of seduction. She’d observed Charley, her brother, in his days as a rake bantering with widows, dodging straight answers, leading them up to the brink, luring them in. Some of the women were just as clever, if one could count such nonsense without purpose as cleverness. Perry didn’t.
But of course, Fox had a purpose. He didn’t truly care for her, he was just stirring the embers of the girlish attraction she’d felt all those years ago.
He’d had lovers among the women he’d painted. He was skilled at seduction, surely a liar, and likely knew more about her mother’s death. She found her dagger and strapped it around her arm, under her sleeve. Without Jenny’s help, it was awkward. She must get used to that awkwardness if she was to live as an independent woman.
She went up the stairs. Had he told her he was on the top floor, or was it just something she knew about him, that he would choose a high floor with the best afternoon light?
She gripped the banister. In their conversations so far, she’d let her attention jump around, let him lead her astray. She’d not paid attention to what he wasn’t saying.
At the door, she knocked firmly and heard an equally firm order to enter.
