Chapter 2
“Lady Perpetua.” The patiently condescending tone might have come from Bakeley. That tone had dogged her through all of her growing up years.
Fox’s hands went to his hips. He had a laborer’s hands, too wide and too strong for a man wielding a dainty paint brush. The movement stretched the almost sheer cloth of his shirt over a chest equally too wide and too strong, while damp, dark locks dangled over his forehead and dripped over the scruff on his cheek,
Warmth uncurled in her chest, as if she were fourteen again.
She fought down the madness and dipped her head slightly. “Mr. Fox.”
The curl of his lip sent a quiver through her.
Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Years ago, she had followed him around like a bird-witted puppy—no, a foal, he had called her, on account of her height and her long skinny legs.
He’d seen them, when she’d fallen out of a tree spying on him.
Her face glowed hotly. The memory had mustered a blush.
She lifted her chin. “What the devil are you doing in my house?”
He blinked and went still. “Your house?”
“Yes.”
Fox stirred and moved closer.
She crossed her arms over her chest. He matched the move, looking her up and down and glancing at Jenny. His mouth quirked at one corner and his eyes softened.
A smile being pushed down—she’d seen that look so many times. He was holding back from laughing. One didn’t laugh at the daughter of the countess who was one’s patroness.
He’d actually said those words to her once.
“I repeat—”
“There’s no need to repeat yourself, Lady Perpetua. I heard you the first time. I’m painting.”
That familiar accent, so flat and American, still jarred her.
He’d been painting in London when she’d stumbled across a landscape in a stationer’s window. Surprised to find him in London, still painting, still alive, she’d discovered his lodgings and commissioned a chalk design for the ballroom floor at Bakeley’s wedding celebration.
And then he’d appeared at that ball and danced with her, more than once.
She shook off the memory. Why was he here? Was he here at Father’s behest? Or…was he spying on the Earl of Shaldon?
“Since I am here, Mr. Fox, you must leave.” He must, mustn’t he?
Or…if she sent him away, would he go straight to Father and report her?
He waved a hand. “In this weather?”
“You are already wet.”
“As are you.” His gaze moved to her bosom in a way that made her hot again.
Irritating man. He was just like all the rest. “You must go back to your room at the inn, or wherever you are staying.”
A smile lit his face and her annoyance spiked. Most assuredly he was not taking her seriously. Which no one ever did.
“I expect this rain will go through the night.” He moved closer, extending a hand. “Come, Lady Perpetua. I assume you’ve brought a carriage? I’ll help you unload, we’ll get the horses to shelter, and then we can talk. Why should the animals suffer?”
