The absence of her restrictive, heavy skirts allowed her to move nimbly across the room. An untamed possessiveness stirred in his gut as he admired how very right she looked wearing his clothes.
She gestured to his whisky, and he finally tore his gaze away long enough to pour her a drink.
When he handed her the glass, he noted her breeches were too closely fitted to be his. They were precisely tailored to Diana’s measurements and tucked neatly into a pair of sturdy short boots. “Were you wearing the boots and the breeches beneath your dress?”
“Of course.” She flapped a hand to suggest the question, and not her attire, was the ridiculous thing. “I’m afraid you’ve had to sacrifice these.”
As she casually stroked his shirt and waistcoat, he became painfully aware of the fit of his own trousers.
“It’s no matter,” he said roughly.
“You will make out better in the trade. My dress cost enough to fund a coup in several countries.”
Neither of them said a word about the emeralds, which weren’t visible beneath the open collar of her shirt.
Diana perused the half-empty bookshelves bordering the fireplace with some interest before she sat down primly on one of the well-worn leather club chairs. “Who does this house belong to?”
“Why don’t you think it belongs to me?”
When she arched her brow, he was sorely tempted to do something foolish involving his mouth and hers.
She peered at the books. “Freddie Sterling used to live here. You acquired it from him?”
He respected the careful way she positioned that question. “Lord Sterling was living far beyond his means, which he thought he’d rectify by staking this place in a game ofvingt-et-un.”
Ian omitted telling her that Freddie Sterling was on a list of men who’d danced with Diana and tried to assume liberties. Sterling had once grazed his hands over Diana’s bottom before she’d seamlessly made him stumble onto his face on the dance floor. Ian had vindictively waited for Sterling to sink himself into debt before luring him into a game he had no chance of ever winning.
“Poor Freddie.” Her tone was full of mock sorrow. “He should have known better than to play with the Devil of the Docklands.”
“Don’t call me that.”
His voice was low, suddenly grave.
Diana went very still.
They both stared at each other, daring the other to speak first, until Hepburn arrived with a delivery of letters.
“It’s from Mrs. Turner.” Ian sliced his letter-opener through the seal and scanned the note. “Jared woke briefly, was ill, then returned to his stupor.”
“I suppose that’s good news?”
“The doctor says it’s small progress. Turner says the journalists are still staked outside the house.”
Diana hummed as she read her own letter. “Amelia reports they’re at Rives House as well. She told Mrs. Turner that I’m staying with her to avoid them.”
“What is Miss Hunter’s involvement in all of this?”
She kept her eyes on the note and sipped her whisky quietly.
Her silence needled him; she’d chosen reticence rather than overtly lie to him again. “Exactly how long have you been planning all this?”
“That’s not the question you want answered,” she replied carefully. “You want to know why events unfolded as they did.”
He hated she knew this about him.
“Don’t deny your hand.” If she’d been a man, he would have accused her of behaving unsportsmanlike. “You orchestrated every piece of what happened today.”
“I’m neither that talented nor that spiteful.”
