Chapter 16
Perry buried her face in the bed pillow. It smelled of citrus and Fox’s own musk. She turned her head and rubbed her cheek against the linen. Today he’d left the bed rumpled and messy and—yes, he was right. By all that was holy and proper with theton, finding herself plopped onto his bed was why she must leave.
She turned on her side and curled her legs, relaxing into the cloth-covered ticking. Fox’s bed was considerably lumpier than hers.
“Get up.” He spoke from next to the bed.
She waited for his touch.
“Get up.”
“I’m not a performing dog.”
“Of course you’re not. You’re Lady Perpetua, the daughter of the Earl of Shaldon.”
She squeezed her eyes tight against his cold jabs. No tears. She would not cry. She wouldnot. No matter how unfair he was, talking to her as if she was a spoiled miss.
She wasn’t spoiled. She hadn’t even been a spoiled child all those years ago. She was dutiful, and kind, and a rule-follower.
And so tired of it. She’d grasped this chance to take charge of her life, and she was determined to stay the course.
She pushed herself upright on the edge of the bed, with Fox standing just within reach. The dimming light shadowed his handsome face, but couldn’t hide the heat coming off him, or the sound of his breathing. He may be angry, but he cared for her.
“Why do you do it, Fox?”
His scent came to her on a sudden breeze. One of the windows must be open.
“Perpetua.”
Her heart leaped. He hadn’t asked what she was talking about.
“Perry. Call me Perry, as you’ve been doing.”
She stood and he took a step back.
“You tease me and draw me close, and then you push me away. Why?”
“You need to go home, Lady Perpetua. You should not be here in the home of a single man—and yes, for now it is my home, not yours.”
She caught a note of desperation in his voice. “And you’re engaged in a dangerous business.”
He paused. “Yes.”
“Thank you for the truth. You are looking for my mother’s murderer.”
“Yes.”
He’d hesitated again. Finding her mother’s killer was not the only reason he was here then. “And you also are a spy.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes. I believe you are. But for whom? Nine years ago, our countries were at war. Were you at Cransdall ten years ago spying on the spymaster?”
Fox took a step back. She moved closer.
“A portraitist with well-heeled clients moves in the highest circles. He dabs paint in the corners of rooms and listens to people talking. Did you spy for France, Fox?”
He grasped her arms and locked his to hold her away. “I would never spy for a country of brutes who turn the guillotine on so many of their own.”
