“And then you would deprive yourself of my company,” he said. To his utter and inexplicable delight, he managed to coax a smile from her that she tried to hide behind her coffee cup.
Beau gestured to the chest full of books she’d brought for a trip they’d both hoped would be as short as possible. She was going to run out of shelf space long before the trunk was emptied.
“You must be an incredibly fast reader.”
“Actually no.” She paused, as if carefully considering her answer. “I like to take my time with a book. To savour it.”
Beau swallowed a groan. Did she have even the slightest idea what she was doing to him?
“Why Miss Murray, you really are a romantic,” he said.
“I am not,” she protested, a familiar edge creeping back into her voice. Her armour was coming back into place, and Beau was overcome with the absolute necessity of figuring out how to pry it loose.
“There is nothing wrong with that, you know,” he said. “Not everything has to be logic and hard angles all the time. The world is better with some softness.”
He set down his cup, rose and walked over to the small trunk she’d carted from Everwell. Inside was a tidy line of books that had been packed with great care. He scanned the spines, some of which appeared absolutely ancient. The mix of titles were eclectic. Poetry, two novels, a book of philosophy, and?—
He paused, and looked again, partially because the title was in a complex blackletter script, and partially because it was in German.
Vollstandiges Ring-Buch.
“Your tastes are quite eclectic,” he said, carefully pulling the book out of its place, and opening the cover. He flipped through the pages, which were full of illustrations demonstrating different stances and techniques for disarming an opponent. How many times had she had to employ these stances to keep herself and the people of Everwell safe?
“Didn’t your parents teach you to ask before you help yourself to someone else’s things?” she asked, setting her plate aside.
“Come now,” he said, lowering his voice in that way he did when he wanted to draw in a potential client to close the deal. “You can’t deny me a book, can you?”
“I hardly think a man in your position has been denied anything.”
Beau couldn’t argue the point. Though he’d been denied the one thing he’d worked his entire life to earn—his father’s respect—he’d long given up on that dream. With Frank dead, it was gone forever.
Unable to shrug off the discomfort, he thumbed through the pages, looking over the top of the book at Miss Murray. He was goading her—a deliberate move to distract himself from the old wound.
“How about your good opinion?”
She rose to her feet, crossed the room, and reached for the book, but he pulled it away. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, knowing full well he was playing a dangerous game. And just as he was about to congratulate himself on his tactics at playing it, Beau felt himself temporarily discombobulated owing to the fact he’d been spun around, his arms pinned to his side and temporarily unable to see thanks to his shirt being yanked over his head and pulled tight across his mid-chest. By the time he’d righted himself, the book was back in Miss Murray’s hands, and the only salve to his ego was the unmistakable hint of smug victory on her face.
“Miss Murray, if you wished to undress me, simply ask,” he said, brushing off his wounded male pride with his most reliable weapon—sarcasm. He tucked in his shirt and raked his fingers through his hair, trying to put it back to some semblance of style. “You may find that I am most agreeable to the question.”
“You seemed determined to make this arrangement of ours as unpleasant as possible,” she said.
“And you seemed determined to hate me,” he said. “I cannot help but rise to that challenge.”
“Does a man of your fortune and circumstance require the good opinion of an old maid whose entire worth can be found in a few trunks at her feet?” she asked.
“Those closest to me that I believed knew my character now deem me capable of murdering my father, Miss Murray,” he said. “So perhaps I am more invested in your opinion that you might think.”
The room stilled as a note of tension wound between them, like the calm before a gathering storm. Why did her estimation suddenly mean so much to him? Was it simply that she was here? He hadn’t experienced this level of urgency with Dominic Ashe—the man he’d actually hired to help him—or even his aunt and uncle. Why did Madeline Murray matter at all? She was here because she was being paid, not out of some urgent need to help him.
“I wouldn’t be here if I thought you were guilty,” she said at last. “The Everwell Society wouldn’t be jeopardizing our reputation otherwise.”
“And that is important to you.”
“It is everything.”
Her words hit Beau like a blow to the chest, robbing him of his ability to speak for a moment. How must it be to have such a sense of belonging? Envy, ridiculous as it was, crept inside him, twisting at his insides. How could he be jealous of a charity? But there it was. That conviction in her voice, that quiet fury driven by an absolute love and devotion to a people and place that she loved. For all his wealth and status, no one seemed as interested in protecting Beau as much as Madeline Murray was determined to protect Everwell and everyone in it.
To her, Beau was a job. To Frank, he’d been a tool for making money.
