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She pressed her lips together. The painting hung near the top of the stairs, where most eyes would fall upon it. “I was so intent on following after you.” She twisted her head and found his gaze locked upon her. Did he believe her lie? Goodness, if she was listening to such tripe, she certainly would not.
But his gaze remained fixed upon her, not with doubt, but with something else. It was as though his eyes had lit from the inside and the sweat upon his lip glinted in the lamplight.
He leaned in slowly. So slowly that it gave her enough time to recognize what flickered in his gaze.
Desire.
She darted back swiftly and voices echoed at the bottom of the stairs, allowing her to draw in a deep breath.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “You should not be alone up here, my lady. Please believe me when I say I am not the sort of man who spends time with ladies unescorted and you really are...” he motioned over her, “so lovely. I would never do something to...upset you.”
She considered all the times she’d been alone at balls when any man could have come upon her and most certainly did not and then all the times she’d been with Blake. She couldn’t fathom quite what Mr. Foster thought of her but he was wrong, whatever his impression was.
“Why do you not head down?” she suggested. “I am certain your guests are missing you.”
“Yes.” He nodded vigorously, his throat bobbing. “Yes, indeed. I do hope we shall have a chance to talk again. In company of course.”
She offered a bright smile. “But of course.”
“Until then, my lady.” He dropped into a bow and hastened down the stairs.
Scowling, she watched him scurry away then darted back into the shadows when two ladies walked past the bottom of the steps. She could not fathom that man. Could he sweat on command? Had he really desired her? Or was it all part of his act?
Whatever it was, it left her feeling nauseated. She’d seen desire in Blake’s eyes, even if it was momentary and most likely entirely rash, and it had been different to what she’d seen in Mr. Foster’s.
That man was dangerous, she concluded. More dangerous than either of them had suspected.
***
When Blake stepped into Pidgeon’s and his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the large open space, he shook his head to himself. Anyone who was acquainted with Demeter would be hard-pressed to imagine her even setting a toe in here. She’d surely run away, her eyes wide, her limbs trembling.
But they did not know her like he did.
He glanced toward the table he’d seen her playing at. It felt like an eternity ago now.
The early hour meant only the desperate and the eager occupied the tables. He had little idea if Harriet Carr would be here but he’d awoken with a desperate need to do something about this damned situation with his cousin. When he should have been investigating him, he’d been, well, rather occupied with Demeter. He’d spent far too much time just talking with the woman.
And thinking of her.
Oh yes. And kissing her too.
He scrubbed a hand across his face, clasped his hat in one hand and veered between the tables. The air was scented with herbs and stale sweat. The herbs were most likely used to conceal the stench of bodies but it couldn’t hide the scent of desperation. At least two of the men at the card tables were likely perspiring through their shirts. Whatever had brought them here, they were never going to make their fortune.
He smirked to himself. Demeter would, of course, but Demeter was a rarity—in so many ways.
A young man swept splinters of wood from the floor—the remnants of a chair by the looks of it—and Blake had to wonder why the sweet Demeter had chosen this place of all places to play. There were gaming hells with better reputations where fights did not break out on a regular basis. Of course, she did not seem to do anything the easy way. She was all determination, wrapped up in a skinny bundle of long, luxurious hair and far too kissable lips. Anyone who thought she could not hold her own here did not know her.
Damn it. Now was not the time. He didn’t need to be thinking of the kiss nor how he’d come to know her far too intimately for his liking and yet not nearly intimately enough.
He tapped the man on the shoulder. He had no time to waste. He’d glimpsed his cousin’s face through the crack in the door last night. He’d seen how his gaze had lingered on Demeter. Oh, he’d hidden it under a guise of gentlemanliness but Blake recognized such a look. There had been no suspicion, as Blake had feared—oh no, there was only desire.
And Demeter, the bloody woman, responded with all the faux charm and innocence of a debutante looking to hook a marriage proposal, though he doubted she had any idea what her words could do to a man. What was she thinking, dragging Foster to look at a nude painting? Alone?
“What do you want?” The lanky young man turned with a roll of his eyes, set the broom down to lean against it, and ran his gaze wearily up Blake. It seemed not even his rather well-known face nor his expensive clothing impressed the man who could be no more than twenty but had apparently seen everything in this place.
“Is Harriet here by any chance?”
He glanced upward, toward the balcony that ran the width and breadth of the building, leading to the upper rooms. “Up there.”
