She poured, as stiff-backed as the Duchess who’d wanted him in her bed. Lady Shaldon’s invitation had saved him from that awful commission. At Cransdall, he’d found himself in a home full of humor, great love, and one long-legged girl budding into womanhood. Perry had fancied herself in love with him, at least for the first week of his stay, until his jabs and irritations had set her at odds with him. It was better that way.
But she wasn’t a fourteen-year-old anymore.
She bent to pass him the cup and her bodice pulled, squeezing her bosom.
He tore his gaze away and stared into the swirling liquid, the same glittering dark amber as Perry’s eyes.
She cleared her throat and he smiled, watching the color rise over her frown.
She was still a rebel. He’d watched her at Cransdall thrashing herself, over and over against the walls put up by her world. And the business of seeking him out in London for a commission—it just wasn’t done. Bakeley had been furious.
She patted her mouth with a napkin and squinted at him. Where were the spectacles she’d worn in London?
He sipped the hot liquid and waited.
“Mr. Fox.” She eyed him over the rim of her cup. “I was very surprised to see you here. You say you are painting, but are you not supposed to be at Cransdall? My brother said you are commissioned to do a portrait of my father.”
“That is true.”
“So why are you not there?”
“Your father will not come down from London until after the coronation.”
She sighed, but her shoulders stayed rigid. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
He waited, watching her mouth tighten and move as she squelched the emotions wanting to play across her face. As a girl, she’d been as purposeful as a dog after a bone, constantly chided and hemmed in by her governess, her brothers, and even sometimes her mother. Apparently, she’d learned a bit of self-control.
He’d heard she wanted to enter her father’s Game. She would be relentless and dangerous, most especially to herself.
“Fox,” she snapped. “Cransdall still has that room with the very good light. Go there and paint.”
“Cransdall doesn’t have this.” He waved a hand toward the high windows where the rain beat and the noise of the waves sounded.
Her cup clattered on the saucer. “I’m here. I’m not leaving. You must go.”
“And I’m here also. By your father’s permission.”
That brought her up. “But this house is mine.” Her mouth firmed.
It was grim determination, he decided.
“The house will be yours when you marry. Have you married, Perpetua?”
Her lips curled in. She could not keep her eyes from narrowing. So, Lady Shaldon had not changed her will.
“Is there a husband lurking about who I’m going to have to duel with?”
The pink creeping up her neck turned a brighter shade and his gut clenched.
Wasshe running away from a husband?
Or…what was more likely, a prospective husband? Shaldon was no doubt pressing her to marry his choice of lordling. It was the way of their class.
“Who told you the house would be mine when I marry?” The words came out in a rush of air, and she stood, towering over him, fists balled.
Heat shot to his groin. He took her hand, squelching the instinct to pull her on to his lap. “Your mother told me years ago. You haven’t married, have you?”
She blinked. He saw the sheen there and slipped his fingers around her other hand, gentling them.
