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“Ha. You’re in no position to lecture me on decency, as far as I can see. I could have you arrested on so many counts it addles the mind: impersonating the opposite gender, false representation for the purpose of breaking and entering, all manner of moral turpitude. They might have to create a new reform society exclusively for you.”
“Poor Ravenwood,” she cooed. “Do you need me to be locked away so I won’t offend your maidenly sensibilities?”
He didn’t take the bait. He’d always been better at remaining calm and keeping that mocking smile on his lips during their frequent altercations.
He almost never lost his temper, while she inevitably ended up foaming at the mouth with fury.
Wiping that smug smile from his lips was a game she rarely won. Life was one big joke to him. He always had a flask in hand and a laconic quip at the ready that invariably told her nothing she truly wanted to know.
“I need you to tell me what you’re doing here,” he said.
“Having a lark.” She tossed her head, which didn’t have nearly the same effect it did when she had long hair to toss about. “A friend and I placed a wager about infiltrating all-male societies.”
That much was true. Her musical friend Miss Beaton was attempting to win a symphonic composition contest sponsored by the Royal Society of Musicians by using a male pseudonym.
Ravenwood hooked a thumb into his waistcoat pocket. “No, why are youhere? In the library examining the Rosetta Stone?”
She shrugged. “Decided to take a tour because the meeting was so dull. You call this an exclusive society? Sadly lacking in secretive rites, I must say. Where are the intricate handshakes and the funny hats? I haven’t even heard any talk of mythical Rosy Crosses or plots to take over the world.”
“Wait a few hours.” His smile became a smirk. “There’s a doorway concealed behind the tapestry and we all go down to a secret chamber in the cellar and drink blood and debauch virgins in ominous rituals.”
He would have to bring up debauching.
And she would have to picture him by candlelight as he bound her wrists; preparing to have his diabolical way with her... she applied a mental dash of cold water to her overactive imagination.
“All I saw,” she said tartly, “was you fondling a marble statue. What’s the matter, can’t find a real woman to show you her bosom?”
The side of his lip lifted higher. “Speaking of bosoms...” He walked closer and she suppressed the instinctual urge to retreat. His gaze traveled over her cravat and waistcoat. “What the devil’s happened to yours?”
“Women have been binding their chests and passing as men since time immemorial.”
“Shameful waste of a damned fine bosom, if you ask me.”
“I’d like to stop discussing bosoms now.”
“You’re the one who introduced the topic, and since you don’t appear to be willing to answer my initial question I’ll play along, until you grow weary of our battle of wits and innuendo and decide to tell me the truth.”
“I thought you lived for our battles of wit and innuendo,” she said with as glib a tone as she could manage.
“They do make life more interesting,” he drawled. “But I’m after answers. Admit it, Indy.” He walked closer. “You’re trapped between a stone and a hard place.”
The hard place being him.
All of him.
From the glint in his eyes, to those cheekbones like cutlass blades, to the impressive framework of muscles bulging beneath his coat.
She certainly wasn’t going to think about any other parts of him that might have cause to bulge and harden.
Certainlynot.
“Have you been brawling?” she asked. “That’s quite the bruise you have over your eye.”
“Don’t attempt to distract me. It won’t work.”
“Raise the alarm then, have me arrested. You can crow about this until the blessed day you die.” She shifted her stance, preparing to make a run for it if he called her bluff.
“I wouldn’t sound the alarm.”
