Chapter 5
Fox lolled in an armchair, coatless, his white shirt flopped open to a muscled, hairy, masculine chest.
Heat thundered through her and she tore her gaze away. The nearby grate was laid with unlit kindling and wood, freshly placed, she would guess from the shavings that littered the hearth.
No healthy, dry man would want a fire on a night this mild. Even if he’d gone out after delivering her to her room, he wouldn’t have got himself wet. The rain had stopped.
He hadn’t stood at her entry, as a gentleman would. Perhaps he was ill.
She forced her gaze further. A narrow bed had been pushed into a far corner, the linens spread out but rumpled. The tall windows on three walls, east, west, and north, were closed, the curtains pushed wide apart. Near the west window an easel stood, its canvas draped by a white cloth. Two pristine canvases leaned in an open space along the wall.
“You should not be here.” His deep voice drew her gaze back.
That heat she’d felt earlier thrummed in her chest, threatening to make her quiver. Looking away hadn’t helped. She steeled herself against her body’s betrayal and spotted the half-empty bottle. “You’re drinking,” she said.
His smirking smile converted most of the burning inside her to ire. The insufferable ass.
Still, a drunk man might talk. She moved closer.
Fox uncurled from the chair and sat up.
Or, a drunk man might be dangerous.
Not Fox, though. Not to her. Unless he’d somehow been tied up in Mama’s death.
She clasped her hands, bringing her knife nearer.
The bottle, a lamp, and a sketchpad sat on the table. “What are you drawing?” she asked, then silently cursed her distractibility.
Everything about this man was a distraction.
He rested his arm over the pad.
Well, well.They would come back to that. If he truly was here by Father’s invitation, his drawings would have something to do with Father’s work. Unlike many of his peers, Father did not have a passion for art. As far as she knew, he’d only ever personally bought one painting in his life, the stolen masterpiece he’d given her mother years and years ago, and it was completely unrelated to his business of spying.
She must remember her purpose. “Never mind the sketchpad.” She infused her voice with congeniality, the way Bakeley’s Irish wife, Sirena, might speak. “We didn’t finish our discussion downstairs.” How would Sirena say it? “I confess the sight of all those rocks and crashing waves below made me dizzy and distracted.”Not to mention the press of your hands.
He watched her, his face expressionless.
There were no other chairs in the room. She looked again at the bed.
Fox shot to his feet. “Sit here. If you must.”
“Very well.” The seat held his warmth and his scent, brandy and musk and a tinge of the fine roan gelding she’d seen in the stable.
That fine horse was too rich for a portrait painter. It was likely from the stables at Cransdall. Her father was being excessively generous.
“Perhaps I might have a brandy also,” she said.
He handed her his tumbler. “Here. I only have the one glass.”
A tingle went through her at the uncomfortable intimacy. She raised the glass to her lips and sniffed.
“You won’t like it.”
Insufferable man. The glare she sent him made his lips curve, almost into a smile.
“What I mean is, it’s not top quality. Not up to the standards of what your father keeps.”
