“I thought you had no interest in my proposition,” he said, curious as to what had changed her mind.
“As you saw last night, my circumstances are quite dire. It occurred to me that I was being rather foolish to not at least hear you out.”
“How did your circumstances become dire? You were not born into poverty. That much is clear by your clothing, your diction, the way you hold yourself as though you are above all others.”
She looked out at the street, the passing carriages, rumbling wagons, people walking by. The children chasing each other. The occasional dog bounding after them. Taking a deep breath, she met and held his gaze. “My father was involved in a plot to assassinate the Queen.”
Then she was once again studying the traffic, and he cursed himself, wishing he hadn’t pushed, had been content to let her hold close her secrets. He should have guessed what had caused her fall from grace. He’d read about the arrest in the newspaper, but that had been months ago. The man had been a duke, but he couldn’t recall his title. He did remember that the duchess had succumbed to illness shortly after his arrest and passed.
“Aren’t you going to ask for the details?” Her voice sounded as though it came from far away.
“No.” He wanted to take her in his arms, glide his large hands up and down her narrow back, and comfort her. But his insistence was the cause of her current pain.
“I don’t know the particulars anyway. The plot was discovered before it could be carried out. They arrested him at someplace where he was meeting with the other conspirators. His partners, or whatever words are used to refer to treacherous comrades, escaped. He wasn’t so fortunate. He was tried, found guilty, and hanged. The Crown confiscated his titles and properties. We were left with nothing, absolutely nothing. The heir, the spare, and I. You met the spare last night.”
Everything was spoken as though it was rote, memorized, not a part of her. When she looked back at him, a vacantness had glazed over her eyes as if she’d returned to the moment when her world had crumbled around her. “So now that you know the truth of me, do you still have a desire for me to be your mistress?”
He didn’t know the truth of her. He knew only the truth of her father. And while she may no longer be considered nobility by law, she was still nobility by birth.
“I don’t want you as my mistress.”
“I can’t say as I blame you.”
She started to walk past him. Reaching out, he wrapped his fingers around her upper arm. Her skin was so bloody soft, like silk, velvet, and satin all woven together to uniquely create her. She was incredibly warm, comprised of secret places that would be warmer, hotter.
Her unusual blue-gray eyes were no longer vacant. They held heat, and he thought if a tankard were nearby that she’d be dumping its contents over his head. He almost laughed at that.
“My proposition never involved asking you to be my mistress.”More’s the pity.
Her delicate brow furrowed. Her eyes ignited with fury. “You want me to be one of your whores?”
“No, I want you to be a tutor.”
Althea could say with complete honesty that his words flummoxed her. “A tutor?”
He gave a brisk nod. “Allow me to call for some tea and I’ll explain.”
“Actually, I’d rather have the sherry you mentioned earlier.”
He grinned fully, completely, and she realized all the little hints of his grin she’d seen before had failed to prepare her for the devastating reality of how it would transform him from handsome into achingly beautiful. He stole her breath, as stealthily as a pickpocket slipping a silk handkerchief from a pocket, a bracelet from around a wrist, a ring off a finger. So the object was gone before the wearer realized it was taken. One moment she was breathing, and the next she’d quite simply forgotten how.
His fingers slid away from her arm. Thank God, because that touch had also served to create havoc within her mind as she’d contemplated his roughened skin skimming over every inch of her. She was not about to admit that she was rather disappointed he didn’t want her as his mistress.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, indicating two winged chairs near the fireplace. “I’ll fetch the sherry.”
She watched as he walked to the opposite wall from where she stood to a corner table laden with various crystal decanters. The smoothness of his movements, so calm, so deliberate, caused her own body to react with a warming of her skin, an itch of her fingers to reach out and skim over muscles that bunched and stretched. The jacket he wore couldn’t disguise the ease with which his limbs adjusted to whatever chore he executed: grabbing the decanter, pouring the liquid, turning to face her—
Caught staring, she was rather certain her cheeks were now aflame. Trying not to appear to be scurrying to the chair by the fire, she feared her own movements were jerky and displayed her embarrassment. If he noticed, he gave noindication as he returned to her and handed her the small tulip-shaped glass. “Thank you.”
She took a sip, surprised by the richness of the sweet flavor. “Excellent.”
“As you’re well aware, my sister owns a tavern. She’d have my head if I had anything inferior on hand.”
“Well, this might be the best I’ve ever tasted.”
They held each other’s gaze for a long moment before she finally turned away and lowered herself to the chair. Its plumpness gave way and seemed to swallow her, creating a sensation of being hugged. She almost asked who was responsible for his taste in furniture. It, too, was excellent.
His chair groaned a bit as he settled into it, and she imagined she might make the same welcoming sound if he settled himself over her. Where had that thought come from?
