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“But I care not for decor or this taste you speak of.” He found himself invested in his argument. “Surely the quality of a home should be measured by the comfort one receives there? In which case, calling your home very comfortable is the highest of compliments.”
She tilted her head as if considering his words. “I suppose you are quite correct. One should be comfortable in a home. I thank you then for your kind compliment.”
Odd, her accession to his argument lit a small flame of warmth in his breast. Naturally, he made no indication of this. Instead, he inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“But,” she continued, “society places no value on comfort in a home, so as kind as your words are to me, they will not do in a ballroom or musicale, as I think you already know.”
The door opened behind him and a phalanx of maids entered bearing tea trays.
He waited until the maidservants had placed their burdens down and been dismissed.
Then he looked at her, this woman too intelligent for the frivolous society she wallowed in. “You would have me change my entire aspect, I see.”
She sighed and leaned forward to pour the tea. “Not entirely. Besides”—she shot him another of her quick, devastating smiles as she set down the teapot—“I doubt you’re such a frail personality as to be so easily changed. Come. Please sit down with me.”
He was still standing, despite the ache in his right leg, as if ready to either flee or fight. This woman made what social graces he had vanish.
Winter took the settee across from Lady Beckinhall, a low table with the tea things forming a protective barrier between them. He resisted the urge to massage his injured leg, which had begun to throb unpleasantly.
She cast him a challenging glance but made no comment on his choice of seat, instead handing him one of the teacups. “You take no sugar or cream, I believe.”
He nodded, taking the dish of tea. It was hot and strong and of a quality that he didn’t often drink.
“Now, then,” Lady Beckinhall said as she stirred sugar and cream into her own tea. “Although I appreciate your compliment of my home, most compliments you’ll be obliged to offer in a ballroom will be of a more personal nature. Something about the lady’s eyes or hair or dress, for instance, would be most suitable.”
She sipped her tea, watching him over the rim with those damnably perceptive blue eyes.
And he couldn’t seem to control his own gaze. He perused her form as he sought a suitable compliment. Ladies were supposed to sit correctly upright, even he knew that, but Lady Beckinhall seemed somehow to lounge bonelessly on the cushions, shoulders back, feet tucked beneath the settee. The position thrust her bosom into prominence, though he did not think it deliberate on her part. She wore a low-cut gown of deep gold, the cloth tenderly cradling her pale, soft breasts.
I would do violence for one glimpse of your naked breasts. Bleed for one taste of your nipple on my tongue.
No, that was probably not the type of compliment she was looking for.
He cleared his throat. “Your voice, my lady, would make a nightingale jealous.”
She blinked as if surprised. “No one has ever complimented me on my voice before, Mr. Makepeace. Well done.”
Were her cheeks a shade pinker than before?
Her lashes lowered. “A few more comments such as that one, Mr. Makepeace, and you might be flirting with me.”
He felt his brows rise. “You wish me to flirt with you?”
She shrugged. “Most of the conversation between a lady and a gentleman at social events is, in essence, flirtation.”
“Then you must flirt with dozens of gentlemen in a night.”
“Do I detect a tone of reproach, Mr. Makepeace?” she asked softly.
“Not at all.” He ordered his thoughts. “I merely observe that in this you are far more knowledgeable than I.
“More experienced, you mean?”
He merely watched her, for the answer was self-evident. She was more experienced—in flirtation and, no doubt, in other, more basic interactions between women and men. The thought sent an unpleasant rush of some foreign emotion through him.
It took a moment for him to recognize—in some astonishment—that what he felt was jealousy. He lived a life of careful constraint. Ladies—females of any kind—were strictly forbidden by the life choices he’d made. And yet…
And yet there was a part of him—a part he’d never noticed before—that had become impatient with his own rules.
“But you must have flirted before,” she was saying, her voice low and velvety. Welcoming and seductive. Everything that was utterly feminine and alluring.
“No.”
Her delicate brows winged upward. “I know your life is busy, but surely you’ve had a tendre for some young girl before? A friend of your sisters’ perhaps? Or a neighbor?”
He shook his head slowly. “No one.” Did she understand to what he confessed? The beast within yawned and stretched. “I lay myself completely in your hands, Lady Beckinhall. Please. Teach me.”
Chapter Five
The fine lady and the Harlequin became lovers, but such things are very hard to conceal, for the fine lady had suitors both rich and jealous and soon they heard the gossip about the Harlequin. One night when the moon was full, they followed the Harlequin into St. Giles and there set upon him with their steel swords. The Harlequin had but his play sword of wood with which to defend himself. The fight did not last long and when it was done, the suitors left the Harlequin dying in the street…
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
Isabel swallowed at Mr. Makepeace’s low words. His voice sent a shiver across her nerves, making her nipples tighten. Had she heard correctly? Had he just confessed to being a virgin? He was unmarried, true, and by his own admission had never had a sweetheart, but still. Many men resorted to prostitutes—and he lived in an area where they abounded.
But one look at Mr. Makepeace’s proud, stern face disabused her of that notion. Somehow she knew: he would never pay for such an intimate act.
Which meant he was a virgin… and he’d just asked for her tutelage. Surely he didn’t mean—
“Your silence is uncharacteristic, my lady,” he said, still in that deep, precise voice that feathered across her senses. “I hope I have not shocked you with my inexperience… in flirting.”
Flirting. Of course. That was what they were discussing. But she hadn’t imagined the gleam in his dark eyes—or the subtle pause before he’d said “flirting.”
Isabel straightened. She was the experienced one here, after all. “I believe we must work on your introduction, then.”
He merely raised one eyebrow.
She cleared her throat. When had she last been this out of sorts? And over a plain, rigid schoolmaster—a man younger than she! “Flirtation is best begun immediately, even before the introduction. Can you show me your bow?”
He stood slowly and, still holding her eyes, bowed shortly.
She frowned. “No. Something more elegant. Shall I demonstrate?”
“No need.” His gaze was ironic.
This time he backed up a step and pretended to doff an imaginary hat, bowing from the waist, his arms outstretched gracefully.
Isabel’s eyes widened. “If you’ve known all along how to give a proper bow, why haven’t you?”
He straightened slowly and shrugged broad shoulders. “A simple nod of the head gives enough deference without such silly flourishes.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, from now on flourish, please, when in polite company.”
“As you wish,” he said gravely.
“Now.” She had to stop to inhale, for oddly she found herself out of breath. “Now, I would like you to practice kissing the hand of a lady.”
She extended her hand, hoping he wouldn’t notice the faint tremor of her fingers.
He paced toward her, took her hand, and bent over it. For a moment, his bowed head obscured their hands, but she felt the brush—warm and intimate—of his lips on her knuckles.
She gasped. “You’re supposed to kiss the air above the lady’s knuckles.”
He raised his head, still bowed over her hand, the position bringing his face much closer to hers. She could see tiny shards of gold in his brown eyes. “Isn’t this a lesson in flirtation?”
“Yes, but—”
He straightened to his full height. “Then it seems to me that a real kiss is more to the point than a pretend one.”
Only now did she see the shadow of a smile lurking at the back of his eyes.
Her own eyes narrowed as she attempted to withdraw her hand from his. His grip remained firm.
“Mr. Makepeace.”
He opened his hand, but only slightly, so that as she withdrew her hand, his fingers seemed to stroke across her palm.
“Perhaps you have no need of instruction after all,” she muttered.
“Oh, but I do, I assure you.” He resumed his seat across from her. “How many lovers have you had?”
She frowned at him, genuinely shocked. “You can’t ask that.”
“You already did of me,” he reminded her, unperturbed.
“I certainly didn’t use the word lovers,” she retorted.
“But the meaning was the same, was it not?”
“Perhaps.” Of course the meaning had been the same. She pursed her lips.
“I apologize. I wasn’t aware your sensibilities were so delicate.”
The wretched man was laughing at her! Oh, his expression was serious enough, but she could tell by the way he watched her that he meant to provoke.
Isabel settled back against the settee cushions and tilted her head. “Three.”
His chin jerked—very faintly, but she’d seen it. She’d surprised him.
Hiding a smile, she waved a hand airily. “Four, if one counts my husband, but I don’t think husbands should be counted as lovers, do you?”
His eyelids half lowered. “I would not know. Did you take lovers when you were married?”
“No.” She made a considering moue. “Rather bourgeois of me, I know, but there it is. I never strayed from my marriage vows.”
“Did he?”
She looked away. “I don’t like these questions.”
“I’m sorry. I did not mean to hurt you.” His voice was deep and sincere.
“You haven’t.” Desperately she fought to regain her social face. She tilted her chin defiantly, gazing at him frankly.
The corner of his lips curved just a bit. “Then you took your lovers after your husband’s death?”
How had she let him lead her into this dangerous conversational territory? Yet now that she was here, she wouldn’t back down. “Yes. I waited a decent amount of time after dear Edmund was buried, naturally.”
“Naturally.”
She would’ve sworn he would be disapproving of a lady taking lovers, but she couldn’t detect disapproval in his tone. He folded his hands in his lap, his manner as relaxed as if they discussed the price of fresh oysters.
“Do you have a lover now?”
What would it be like to teach such a man the arts of the bedroom?
The whispered thought startled her. He wasn’t of her milieu, wasn’t the type of man she would usually consider taking as a lover. She liked sophisticates. Men who were quick with an amusing witticism. Men who knew how to entertain, perhaps surprise in the bedroom, but who were discreet—even distant—out of it. Men who didn’t take an affaire d’amour with any seriousness.
Her heartbeat quickened. “No.” How far was he willing to take this? She leaned forward, her manner seductive. “Are you interested in the position?”
If she’d hoped to make him back down, she was sadly disappointed. His lips quirked, drawing her eyes to that fuller upper lip. Her brows knit in thought.
o;But I care not for decor or this taste you speak of.” He found himself invested in his argument. “Surely the quality of a home should be measured by the comfort one receives there? In which case, calling your home very comfortable is the highest of compliments.”
She tilted her head as if considering his words. “I suppose you are quite correct. One should be comfortable in a home. I thank you then for your kind compliment.”
Odd, her accession to his argument lit a small flame of warmth in his breast. Naturally, he made no indication of this. Instead, he inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“But,” she continued, “society places no value on comfort in a home, so as kind as your words are to me, they will not do in a ballroom or musicale, as I think you already know.”
The door opened behind him and a phalanx of maids entered bearing tea trays.
He waited until the maidservants had placed their burdens down and been dismissed.
Then he looked at her, this woman too intelligent for the frivolous society she wallowed in. “You would have me change my entire aspect, I see.”
She sighed and leaned forward to pour the tea. “Not entirely. Besides”—she shot him another of her quick, devastating smiles as she set down the teapot—“I doubt you’re such a frail personality as to be so easily changed. Come. Please sit down with me.”
He was still standing, despite the ache in his right leg, as if ready to either flee or fight. This woman made what social graces he had vanish.
Winter took the settee across from Lady Beckinhall, a low table with the tea things forming a protective barrier between them. He resisted the urge to massage his injured leg, which had begun to throb unpleasantly.
She cast him a challenging glance but made no comment on his choice of seat, instead handing him one of the teacups. “You take no sugar or cream, I believe.”
He nodded, taking the dish of tea. It was hot and strong and of a quality that he didn’t often drink.
“Now, then,” Lady Beckinhall said as she stirred sugar and cream into her own tea. “Although I appreciate your compliment of my home, most compliments you’ll be obliged to offer in a ballroom will be of a more personal nature. Something about the lady’s eyes or hair or dress, for instance, would be most suitable.”
She sipped her tea, watching him over the rim with those damnably perceptive blue eyes.
And he couldn’t seem to control his own gaze. He perused her form as he sought a suitable compliment. Ladies were supposed to sit correctly upright, even he knew that, but Lady Beckinhall seemed somehow to lounge bonelessly on the cushions, shoulders back, feet tucked beneath the settee. The position thrust her bosom into prominence, though he did not think it deliberate on her part. She wore a low-cut gown of deep gold, the cloth tenderly cradling her pale, soft breasts.
I would do violence for one glimpse of your naked breasts. Bleed for one taste of your nipple on my tongue.
No, that was probably not the type of compliment she was looking for.
He cleared his throat. “Your voice, my lady, would make a nightingale jealous.”
She blinked as if surprised. “No one has ever complimented me on my voice before, Mr. Makepeace. Well done.”
Were her cheeks a shade pinker than before?
Her lashes lowered. “A few more comments such as that one, Mr. Makepeace, and you might be flirting with me.”
He felt his brows rise. “You wish me to flirt with you?”
She shrugged. “Most of the conversation between a lady and a gentleman at social events is, in essence, flirtation.”
“Then you must flirt with dozens of gentlemen in a night.”
“Do I detect a tone of reproach, Mr. Makepeace?” she asked softly.
“Not at all.” He ordered his thoughts. “I merely observe that in this you are far more knowledgeable than I.
“More experienced, you mean?”
He merely watched her, for the answer was self-evident. She was more experienced—in flirtation and, no doubt, in other, more basic interactions between women and men. The thought sent an unpleasant rush of some foreign emotion through him.
It took a moment for him to recognize—in some astonishment—that what he felt was jealousy. He lived a life of careful constraint. Ladies—females of any kind—were strictly forbidden by the life choices he’d made. And yet…
And yet there was a part of him—a part he’d never noticed before—that had become impatient with his own rules.
“But you must have flirted before,” she was saying, her voice low and velvety. Welcoming and seductive. Everything that was utterly feminine and alluring.
“No.”
Her delicate brows winged upward. “I know your life is busy, but surely you’ve had a tendre for some young girl before? A friend of your sisters’ perhaps? Or a neighbor?”
He shook his head slowly. “No one.” Did she understand to what he confessed? The beast within yawned and stretched. “I lay myself completely in your hands, Lady Beckinhall. Please. Teach me.”
Chapter Five
The fine lady and the Harlequin became lovers, but such things are very hard to conceal, for the fine lady had suitors both rich and jealous and soon they heard the gossip about the Harlequin. One night when the moon was full, they followed the Harlequin into St. Giles and there set upon him with their steel swords. The Harlequin had but his play sword of wood with which to defend himself. The fight did not last long and when it was done, the suitors left the Harlequin dying in the street…
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
Isabel swallowed at Mr. Makepeace’s low words. His voice sent a shiver across her nerves, making her nipples tighten. Had she heard correctly? Had he just confessed to being a virgin? He was unmarried, true, and by his own admission had never had a sweetheart, but still. Many men resorted to prostitutes—and he lived in an area where they abounded.
But one look at Mr. Makepeace’s proud, stern face disabused her of that notion. Somehow she knew: he would never pay for such an intimate act.
Which meant he was a virgin… and he’d just asked for her tutelage. Surely he didn’t mean—
“Your silence is uncharacteristic, my lady,” he said, still in that deep, precise voice that feathered across her senses. “I hope I have not shocked you with my inexperience… in flirting.”
Flirting. Of course. That was what they were discussing. But she hadn’t imagined the gleam in his dark eyes—or the subtle pause before he’d said “flirting.”
Isabel straightened. She was the experienced one here, after all. “I believe we must work on your introduction, then.”
He merely raised one eyebrow.
She cleared her throat. When had she last been this out of sorts? And over a plain, rigid schoolmaster—a man younger than she! “Flirtation is best begun immediately, even before the introduction. Can you show me your bow?”
He stood slowly and, still holding her eyes, bowed shortly.
She frowned. “No. Something more elegant. Shall I demonstrate?”
“No need.” His gaze was ironic.
This time he backed up a step and pretended to doff an imaginary hat, bowing from the waist, his arms outstretched gracefully.
Isabel’s eyes widened. “If you’ve known all along how to give a proper bow, why haven’t you?”
He straightened slowly and shrugged broad shoulders. “A simple nod of the head gives enough deference without such silly flourishes.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, from now on flourish, please, when in polite company.”
“As you wish,” he said gravely.
“Now.” She had to stop to inhale, for oddly she found herself out of breath. “Now, I would like you to practice kissing the hand of a lady.”
She extended her hand, hoping he wouldn’t notice the faint tremor of her fingers.
He paced toward her, took her hand, and bent over it. For a moment, his bowed head obscured their hands, but she felt the brush—warm and intimate—of his lips on her knuckles.
She gasped. “You’re supposed to kiss the air above the lady’s knuckles.”
He raised his head, still bowed over her hand, the position bringing his face much closer to hers. She could see tiny shards of gold in his brown eyes. “Isn’t this a lesson in flirtation?”
“Yes, but—”
He straightened to his full height. “Then it seems to me that a real kiss is more to the point than a pretend one.”
Only now did she see the shadow of a smile lurking at the back of his eyes.
Her own eyes narrowed as she attempted to withdraw her hand from his. His grip remained firm.
“Mr. Makepeace.”
He opened his hand, but only slightly, so that as she withdrew her hand, his fingers seemed to stroke across her palm.
“Perhaps you have no need of instruction after all,” she muttered.
“Oh, but I do, I assure you.” He resumed his seat across from her. “How many lovers have you had?”
She frowned at him, genuinely shocked. “You can’t ask that.”
“You already did of me,” he reminded her, unperturbed.
“I certainly didn’t use the word lovers,” she retorted.
“But the meaning was the same, was it not?”
“Perhaps.” Of course the meaning had been the same. She pursed her lips.
“I apologize. I wasn’t aware your sensibilities were so delicate.”
The wretched man was laughing at her! Oh, his expression was serious enough, but she could tell by the way he watched her that he meant to provoke.
Isabel settled back against the settee cushions and tilted her head. “Three.”
His chin jerked—very faintly, but she’d seen it. She’d surprised him.
Hiding a smile, she waved a hand airily. “Four, if one counts my husband, but I don’t think husbands should be counted as lovers, do you?”
His eyelids half lowered. “I would not know. Did you take lovers when you were married?”
“No.” She made a considering moue. “Rather bourgeois of me, I know, but there it is. I never strayed from my marriage vows.”
“Did he?”
She looked away. “I don’t like these questions.”
“I’m sorry. I did not mean to hurt you.” His voice was deep and sincere.
“You haven’t.” Desperately she fought to regain her social face. She tilted her chin defiantly, gazing at him frankly.
The corner of his lips curved just a bit. “Then you took your lovers after your husband’s death?”
How had she let him lead her into this dangerous conversational territory? Yet now that she was here, she wouldn’t back down. “Yes. I waited a decent amount of time after dear Edmund was buried, naturally.”
“Naturally.”
She would’ve sworn he would be disapproving of a lady taking lovers, but she couldn’t detect disapproval in his tone. He folded his hands in his lap, his manner as relaxed as if they discussed the price of fresh oysters.
“Do you have a lover now?”
What would it be like to teach such a man the arts of the bedroom?
The whispered thought startled her. He wasn’t of her milieu, wasn’t the type of man she would usually consider taking as a lover. She liked sophisticates. Men who were quick with an amusing witticism. Men who knew how to entertain, perhaps surprise in the bedroom, but who were discreet—even distant—out of it. Men who didn’t take an affaire d’amour with any seriousness.
Her heartbeat quickened. “No.” How far was he willing to take this? She leaned forward, her manner seductive. “Are you interested in the position?”
If she’d hoped to make him back down, she was sadly disappointed. His lips quirked, drawing her eyes to that fuller upper lip. Her brows knit in thought.
