“It will all depend on how the evening goes.”
She certainly had confidence. He liked that about her, a direct contrast to Mrs. Mallard. “Will you do me the honor of allowing me to show you around? We can carry our drinks with us.”
“You’re quite familiar with the place, are you?” she asked.
“I know every corner, especially the more shadowy ones.” With his words, he was issuing a dare, and he didn’t know why he felt the need to do such a thing. Still, he offered his arm.
She stared at it as though she’d never seen one before. Or perhaps a gentleman had never offered her the courtesy, although he couldn’t imagine it. If she was raised among the nobility, then she’d no doubt frequented balls, although he hadn’t noticed her at the few he’d attended, but then he spent most of the evening in the cardroom. For the past three years, he’d been carefully cultivating his reputation, and of late, it ensured he was seldom welcomed as a dance partner. While within these confines he’d noticed a few speculative gazes turned their way, he saw little harm in escorting her about when her presence already signaled that she didn’t fear becoming tarnished. She’d chosen workover marriage, and that alone was enough to blemish her character.
Finally, she placed her hand on his forearm, and only then did he realize that he’d been holding his breath, preparing to walk away should she decline his offer. No, to do more than that: to leave entirely rather than witness her enjoying the company of another.
But she had accepted, and he could recall no other victory that had ever felt as sweet.
His forearm was as firm as a boulder, felt as strong as it had looked, with its ropy muscles and raised veins, resting along the back of the settee while his fingers had been stroking Mrs. Bowles. Even though he wore a coat and she gloves, she detected the heat of his flesh traveling into hers. She didn’t know how it was possible that so chaste a touch could make it difficult to breathe, could awaken butterflies in her stomach, could cause her thoughts to scatter. She’d gone on strolls with men, had rested her fingers on their arms, and yet for all the impact they’d had on her, she could have been touching an ethereal being.
Bishop was anything but. He was hard, toned, and sturdy. And her hand was once again feeling as though he’d taken possession of it. This awareness of him was inconvenient. How in the world was she to speak out against him without her voice giving away her desire to know him more intimately? How was she not to recall that at this moment she’d very much like to be sitting on that settee with him in his bedchamber?
She should have walked out as soon as she spotted him. Or better yet, latched on to the first gentleman she’d neared so Bishop would have never approachedher. Why had he? Why was he so willing to spend time in the company of a woman he believed to be his servant? Did she intrigue him? Or did he think she’d be an easy conquest?
Well, he was about to learn she was made of firmer stuff. She could resist his charm. She could use this opportunity to gain a better understanding of him that would allow her to ensure he paid a heavy price for encouraging women not to remain faithful to their vows. “Lead the way.”
He bestowed upon her that marvelous smile that challenged her determination to defy his magnetic appeal. It wasn’t fair that so simple an action could cause her to lose her head, to wish she’d encountered him here before she’d been hired to spy on him, before she knew that all the rumors about his transgressions were true. She wished he wasn’t a cad and found herself wondering why he’d chosen that path, for surely it had been a conscious decision. He had to know that scoundrels weren’t meant for proper and decent society, and that no father would ever grant him a daughter’s hand in marriage.
But then, perhaps like her, he was content not to have a spouse or a helpmate. But why turn to a scandalous way of life, to be known as a seducer, which would force such isolation? More importantly, why did she care? Why did she want to know all the intimate details of his life, to know what had shaped him into the man he’d become? Why did she wish he was different, was someone she could respect?
He escorted her into the hallway and past the stairs. “Activities on this level are rather tame,” he said quietly. “Upstairs is a bit more lively.”
“I assume upstairs is where you spend the majority of your time.”
“You make a good many assumptions about me, Marguerite.”
“I work in your household. Few secrets about you are kept within those walls.”
“I imagine there are more than you think. Just as I suspect you are comprised of an entire trove of secrets.”
“I imagine there are fewer than you think.”
His gaze landed on her like a soft caress. “But some exist.”
“Everyone has secrets,” she said.
“What would it take to uncover yours?”
“Absolute trust.”
“Are they the reason you chose an occupation over a husband?”
“Are yours the reason you choose an inordinate number of lovers over a wife?”
He chuckled low. “Why do I have the sense that we are playing chess, and the winning strategy involves holding secrets close?”
“I was under the impression this club was for light flirtation, not the acquisition of in-depth understanding of another.”
“So it is. This way.”
They turned into another corridor and were greeted by piano keys being struck with an accomplished hand.
“I was hoping to entice you into playing for me,” he said, while setting their empty glasses on the tray of a passing footman, “but it sounds as though another beat us to it. Still, let’s enjoy the music, shall we?”
