“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.