His voice was rough and raw, and she wondered if perhaps she wasn’t the only one affected by their nearness to each other. She held her tongue, fearing this time she would sound breathless. She took two steps back, hit the chair across from the settee, and wobbled. When he made a swift movement to jump into action, she quickly raised her hand, palm out, to balance herself and stop him from reaching for her. Edging her way around the side and clearing the furniture, she spun on her heel and headed for the door. It took everything within her not to glance back, not to take one more look at him. Because the very last thing she wanted to see was another woman shoving a grape into his lush mouth.
Bishop looked down at his chest, surprised not to find the outline of Marguerite’s palm burned into his flesh. When she’d begun to remove her hand from where it had landed, he had summoned up every ounce of willpower he possessed not to press his free hand over hers and keep it in place, connecting her to him. His heart had thudded so hard that she had to have felt it against her fingertips.
He would have wagered all he possessed that she’d been as affected as he. The black pupils of her eyes had enlarged until they’d very nearly devoured the blue. Her lips had parted as though in wonder, and he’d wanted to dip his head and take possession of that luscious mouth that haunted his dreams. He wasstill experiencing the tremors from the force required not to do so.
How was it that she had such power over him? No woman had ever captured his attention as she did. It was ludicrous to have any interest in her at all when she was possibly here to gather information on him. Even though he wanted her to collect it because it would lead to him accomplishing his goal of liberating a woman from an unwanted husband, he was left with the impression he wasn’t going to come out the winner. That the reputation he’d cultivated so carefully was about to bite him on the arse.
He needed to lower himself into a tub of cold water in order to regain his senses. But he had a visitor in need of tending, someone with whom he enjoyed spending time, her humor and ease making her a delightful companion. He turned to her now. “Where were we?”
“You were telling me how much you enjoyed goading a friend into realizing he was in love with his secretary.”
“Ah, yes.” King and the once Penelope Pettypeace, now the Duchess of Kingsland.
“You weren’t very kind to flirt with her in order to make him jealous.”
As he rejoined her on the settee, he chuckled, remembering the incident that had happened during a dinner at the start of last summer. “For a moment there, I feared I’d misjudged what his reaction might be, and he was going to plow a fist into my jaw.”
“How did you know he loved her?”
“He looked at her as though she hung the moon and stars.”
“Much in the same way that you looked at the maid, just then.”
He glowered. “I see what you’re trying to do there, to tease me as I teased him.”
She smiled. “Not really. To be honest, you appeared besotted.”
He picked up a grape, tossed it into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “I did not.” His tone sounded grumpy and defensive and served to widen her smile. “I barely know her.”
He knew only that she was an orphan, raised by an aunt. He’d not yet had a chance to ask King about Bellingham. He also knew that she had to be smart and cunning if she was indeed an inquiry agent. Skilled at assessing situations. Courageous, because she could place herself in danger. A cold chill skittered down his spine as he wondered if she ever did get herself into perilous situations. Additional questions surfaced: How long had she been at the trade? How did she come to be in it? Why this particular avenue of employment?
“She’s rather comely,” Chastity said slyly. “This Daisy you were telling me about.”
Earlier he’d explained his suspicions regarding the reasons for Marguerite’s appearance in his household, even if he couldn’t quite bring himself to reveal the name that seemed to suit her better. It was the name he used for her, and it somehow seemed personal and private. “As you are well aware, she quite possibly seeks to see me ruined.”
“Maybe she wouldn’t if she knew you better.”
He shook his head. “I need her to want to ensure I pay for perceived sins. Could be your husband who hired her.”
“No, Francis doesn’t give women enough credit to hire one for so important a matter as proving the infidelity of his wife. I daresay I look forward to the day when I am no longer about, and he discovers exactly how much I managed. His household, his business, and his life are going to fall apart. I shall laugh until my sides ache.”
He grinned. “You’re a vindictive wench.”
“Don’t I half know it. You should also be aware that tonight I’m out for revenge and intend to give you a sound thrashing at cribbage.”
“Challenge accepted.” He got up to retrieve the board and cards. He wondered if Marguerite played, if she might threaten him with dire consequences if he lost. If those dire consequences happened in his bed, he’d gladly pay the price.
Chapter 6
Sunday arrived. Every servant was granted the full day off. Daisy wondered who would see after Bishop’s needs and had considered volunteering to stay behind, but she’d been unable to get the feel of his chest off her hand—no matter how many times she scrubbed at it—and had decided that she needed some time away to regain her bearings. She’d not seen him since he’d come to her rescue. She wasn’t quite certain that she wouldn’t have been better served if she’d suffered the humiliation of landing unceremoniously on her backside. He could have laughed uproariously. She could have despised him for it, and she would have redoubled her efforts and found increased satisfaction in seeing him brought to task.
Instead, he occupied her mind in ways he shouldn’t. His strong hand clutching her arm. Fingers tucking up her chin. Mouth lowering to hers. She was supposed to be impartial, was meant to have her client’s best interest at heart. Prove Bishop’s culpability. State clearly and concisely his guilt. She’d begun to doubt her purpose, and that would not do.
She had managed to slip into his library and glance through his diary. He had no appointments on Sunday, no indication that any woman would call upon him. Raven was again marked for an appearance on Monday night. Skittish—no doubt Mrs. Mallard—had an appointment at nine in the evening on Tuesday. Wednesday was Blue-Eyes. Where did the man get his stamina? She supposed by resting up on Sunday.
Therefore, she decided to take advantage of the free time to visit her aunt. She waited until the other servants had left before making her way to the street, where she hired a hansom cab. She didn’t want the staff wondering how she could spare precious coins for private transportation rather than going with a horse-drawn omnibus or her own feet. While she was a far cry from wealthy, she had managed to earn enough that she could splurge now and then. Besides, she knew it would ease her aunt’s worries if she did arrive in a cab.
Walking up the steps of her aunt’s Mayfair residence, she shivered at the ghostly sensation of a tickling on the back of her neck, as though she were being watched. Spinning around, she didn’t know why she expected to discover Bishop spying on her, but there was only the cabbie driving away, the trees swaying in the slight breeze, and the unlit lampposts. It was no doubt simply her nerves on edge because she’d surrounded herself with falsehoods and constantly worried that the truth of her scheming would be uncovered. She’d experienced the sensations before, when she’d needed to pretend to be someone she wasn’t in order to gather necessary information. She hadn’t easily accepted the dishonesty needed in her occupation.
