0062412949 (R) (13 page)

The marchioness studied him. “Approached you, has she?”

“Yes.” The word was clipped. He looked away from Piety to stare at the old woman. “By letter.”

“How attentive of you to reply
in person
.”

“Oh, yes, that’s my middle name,” he said, “
attentive
.”

Piety leaned to Jocelyn. “There is a potential here, I think, for the two of them to be friends.”

“Is this true?” Jocelyn whispered back. “Have you written to the earl?”

Piety wrinkled her nose.

“A lady,” Jocelyn reminded softly, “would never pass letters between herself and a man to whom she has not been introduced.”

Piety could not contain a burst of laughter. “Oh, we have been introduced.”

Lady Frinfrock whirled around. “You find this diverting, Miss Grey?”

Piety coughed and gestured down the hall. “Lord Falcondale. Won’t you come in? We’ve been giving Tiny and Lady Frinfrock a tour of the progress.”

She glanced at him briefly and then away. It was not easy. She
wanted
to see him. She wanted the crowded entryway to disappear, so he was all she could see.

“No, I’m afraid not,” he said. “I’ve intruded. I came only to give you these.” He shoved a wrinkled stack of notes in her direction.

“The drawing of our stairs,” Piety whispered, thumbing through.

Lady Frinfrock and Tiny leaned in, peering over her elbow.

She looked at him. He’d answered her request. In spades. There were pages and pages.

The earl cleared his throat. “Just some general direction. You should continue your search for an architect to do the job properly. This will only get you started.”

Piety studied the parchment in her hand, taking in the straight, even lines of his handwriting. He’d put copious comments to Mr. Burr’s drawings and added several pages of his own beautifully rendered sketches. They were sweeping and dimensional—works of art unto themselves—she had to remind herself that they were simply sketches. Practical, and technical, and exactly what she had asked him to do.

In no way were they a statement on his interest, or his affection, or evidence that he had passed the last seven days ruminating on her the way she had of him.

Even so, she had the thought:
I should tell him. About my mother. The Limpetts
.

He deserved to know why she had been so demanding from the start.

Not here, not now, but somewhere else. And soon. She felt a rush of anticipation. Twenty minutes, perhaps a half hour. Nothing more. To explain her repeated requests for his help.

For now, all she could do was look up and say, “Thank you. Again.”

“ ’Tis nothing,” he said, shoving his hat on his head and motioning to Joseph.

“But surely you cannot advise on a stairwell that you have not seen,” said Lady Frinfrock, shuffling out of the way. “Unless, of course, you have been given a private tour before us?” She raised her eyebrows.

Piety glanced at Jocelyn. At least they were innocent of this. “No, the earl has not yet seen the stairs. Can we trouble you to see it, my lord?”

He hesitated, hovering on the threshold, and Lady Frinfrock turned back inside and began a slow march on the rotunda, her cane thumping regally. “Spare us, the theatrics, please, Falcondale. You cannot feign shyness now. Have a proper look. You’ve come this far.”

Piety watched him, clutching his notes to her chest.

Tiny followed the marchioness, and Jocelyn and the footmen with their pots fell in behind. They trundled down the hall. Falcondale nodded to Joseph, and the boy slipped out the door and into the street.

They were alone in the vestibule. Her stomach and heart swung again.

“I’m sorry for the, er, committee,” she told him. “This has proved to be a highly collaborative street.”

“Ah, is that it? I knew there was some overriding reason. I make a rule never to collaborate. As I’m sure you noticed.”

The notes in her hand betrayed this, and she stared at them again. “I’ve been compelled to accept help from every quarter,” she said, “but the neighbors are to blame. The reason is . . . ” She took a deep breath and leaned back, checking the proximity of the others.

“Careful,”
he said lowly, a whisper, leaning in. He gave a barely perceptible shake of his head.

She nodded and bit her lip, fighting the urge to bury her face in his neck. He was so close.

He emitted an endurance sigh and stared at her as if he wanted the same thing. Piety held her breath.

Ultimately, he pulled away. “There are stairs, Miss Grey?” he asked pointedly, swiping his hat off of his head. “Pray, lead the way.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“T
ell me again, Joseph,” demanded Trevor two hours later, “why we called on her? Explain it to me. Please.”

The boy stood at the basin in the kitchen, washing crockery. Trevor paced behind him, glaring at the floor.

“Because she wrote to you?” the boy suggested.

“Logical guess. She says jump, and I say
how high?
”

“I meant, it was polite to give some answer,” the boy said.

“Logic again. But since when am I polite?”

“Oh, I believe Miss Grey can make even a brute like you seem refined.”

“Refined, are we? Known her all of two weeks, and already, she’s able to
refine
? What of her own refinement? Hmmm? To invite me to her home, to—”

An insistent knock interrupted his rant.

Trevor froze, staring at the kitchen door. She’d come. He knew it. Perhaps he’d gone mad, because he bloody well
felt
it.

“Joseph.” The word was a warning. “Leave it. We’re not at home.”

The boy shot him an exasperated look, drying his hands. “You came home straight away and drew up more plans. You might as well give them to her.” He crossed to the door.

“I was going to post the bloody scribbling.”

Joseph opened the door.

“Ah, Joseph!” The accent was unmistakably American. “Thank you.”

A basket emerged, heaped with pastries, thrust through the door by leather-gloved hands. Then there was the rest of her, bustling through the doorway with a whirl of her cloak that billowed behind her like a flag.

“Marissa bought too many fig tarts,” she said, “and neither Jocelyn nor I can tolerate them. She cannot eat them all herself before they turn. Please take them for your tea.”

“Leave my manservant out of this, if you will, Miss Grey,” Trevor said, watching Joseph accept the basket with enthusiasm. “He can scarcely be trusted around you. When you hold out your maid and her figs, like a carrot on a stick, I have no authority whatsoever.”

She ignored him and unfastened her cloak, popping one button at a time. “Aren’t you a suspicious one? I merely offered the boy a pastry.” The cloak came off in a deft, theatrical whirl and she draped it on a hook near the door.

Her gown was blue: icy and light and soft. It put him in the mind of a birthday gift. If he meant to unwrap her, he thought, where would he begin? At her neck, where tiny buttons marched from a small collar, downward over the curve of her breast? Along her back, where more buttons dotted the arc of her spine? Or at the hem, swaying gently when she walked?

He swallowed hard, allowing himself to speculate, if only for a moment. He had not been able to look at her—not really—when he’d called to her house today. He had not seen her for a week. Now he could not look away.

Her hair was twisted into an elaborate, caramel-colored knot. Wisps and curls escaped here and there, creating a halo around her face. He remembered the feel of that hair, unbound and heavy. His fingers twitched.

Without warning, she looked up from her cloak, and he blinked. He was never quite prepared for the brightness of her smile. He licked his lips. Only Joseph’s polite cough reminded him that he stood, mutely taking it all in, devouring the sight of her.

“Where is your committee, Miss Grey?” He forced his eyes to his timepiece.

She laughed. “There was quite a crowd when you called. The marchioness does not forewarn us when she calls.”

“Ah, well you two have that in common.”

“I’m here to apologize for what a production it became. If only you’d turned up thirty minutes before, or after.”

“Better yet, not at all.”

“Oh, no, do not say that. We were in sore need of your drawings.” She took three steps toward him. She was close now, close enough to smell. “In fact, we could use more of the same, if you can spare the time.” She raised her eyebrows switching to a smile that was tentative and almost shy. She drifted closer. “The stairs are—”

“Why me, Miss Grey?”

Her head shot up at his interruption, and she studied him. It occurred to him that it might be taken as a philosophical question and not a challenge, as it was meant to be. He added, “I can’t help but wonder: what if I had not had the misfortune of being your neighbor? What if you’d moved next door to some other poor sod who couldn’t be counted on for passages and advice about design?”

Her smile fell, and she turned away. He saw her cast around uncomfortably, studying the floor, and Joseph beside the basin, and the door with its tiny portal window. She began to remove her gloves.

Oh, no, there is no need to remove the gloves
. He watched the leather roll back to reveal delicate wrists and fingers.

“Jocelyn—that is, Miss Breedlowe—is on an errand,” she said, “but she will be back soon. I am not hiding from her, mind you, just being strategic about when I come and go. Still, I should hate to be seen.”

Then why come at all
? This he actually said. “Then why come, Miss Grey?”

She nodded to herself but didn’t answer, looking around again. Her gaze lit on the worn kitchen table in front of the fire and the abandoned chess game near the grate.

She looked up and smiled. “Chess?” she asked. “Who plays?”

Joseph was suddenly at her side, tugging her toward the board. “We both do, miss,” the boy said. “His lordship taught me, and now I beat him quite regularly. We’ve a game going, even now.”

“Oh, how grand.” She chuckled and looked to Trevor with something akin to . . . was it sadness?

“Would you mind if I watched?” she asked. “Just a play or two? I haven’t played since my father died. Chess was our special game, the two of us. But Tiny does not play.”

“Yes, I do mind,” said Trevor in the same moment Joseph said, “Please, miss, play my side.” He nearly skidded into the fire in his scramble to lead her to his chair. “Against the earl. I don’t mind at all. It would be a thrill to watch someone else hand him his hat.”

“Oh, no I couldn’t,” she began.

“I would be honored, miss, please.” The boy all but pushed her, forcibly, into the chair.

She laughed in earnest then, the sadness in her eyes nearly gone, but then she gasped and said, “Oh, Joseph! Had you seen this?” She moved the king’s pawn to take one of Falcondale’s knights. “I’m sorry, was it your turn?”

“It was, actually,” said Trevor, leaning forward. “Although that move is well beyond Joseph’s level of skill.” Staring at the board a moment, he moved his queen’s knight to defend his castle.

“Expected,” Miss Grey said and countered his move.

Trevor couldn’t remember exactly when they settled into the chairs, but he found himself comfortably seated by the fifth or sixth move. They went back and forth in silence for a few moments, and he grew increasingly impressed with the speed and alacrity of her play. Her strategy was complicated and unexpected.

“Your father taught you well, Miss Grey,” he said.

“He loved chess, and he taught me to love it, too.” She smiled. “How could I not, when it allowed me to spend so much time with him?” She made another move and called out
check
, removing his queen from the board.

“It enraged my mother,” she continued, “who felt it was a man’s game, not to be played by ladies. She was jealous of the time we spent together.”

“My father taught me, as well,” Trevor said, not knowing what to do with the information about her mother. “One of his few useful contributions to my upbringing.”

“That reminds me,” she chuckled. “I should buy a chessboard for the house before my mother arrives. Something lavish and difficult to move. Ivory and ebony pieces and perhaps a marble table. She will hate it.”

“Your mother will come here? To London?” Trevor paused, his hand hovering over the board.

“She will. Undoubtedly.”

“When? Not before your house is restored, I hope.”

“I hope so, too.” She looked up at him, honesty plain on her face. “But this is the reason for my great rush—for bullying you about the passage and now about the stairs. The more complete the renovations, the more difficult it will be for her to force me to leave.”

“To leave for where?”

“To go back home, to New York. To be married.”

Trevor leaned back in his chair and stared at her.

“Oh,” he finally said. “I see. You’ve fled to London to escape an undesirable match. Hardly an original motive, but a far more elaborate strategy than I’ve ever before known. You bought an entire house, for God’s sake. Halfway around the globe.”

“Elaborate traps call for elaborate escapes.”

They played again. Two moves for him, one for her. They did not take their eyes off the board. When he couldn’t stand it a moment more, he asked, “Who is the fellow?”

“
Fellows
,” she corrected. “There are five of them.”

“Your mother wishes for you to marry
five
men?”

“I am to pick among the five sons of her new husband, my stepbrothers. There is one who seems particularly, er, aggressive, but I believe my mother thinks any of the brothers would do. ”

He scowled at her. “That’s hitting close to home, isn’t it? Marrying a stepbrother? Is this legally binding in America?”

“It is legally binding anywhere. They are not blood relations, merely the offspring of my mother’s new husband.”

“I take it none of the five appeals to you?”

She put down the pawn she was holding and looked up at him. “Oh, Falcondale,” she said, “you do not wish to know.”