Prince of Hearts (11 page)

"I am not one of the 'women in your life'. I am
not
jealous. I feel sorry for those women." She hesitated. "Well, most of them, anyway."

"Luciana failed to impress?" he said dryly, trying not to shudder at the thought of his last mistress.

"That's not the point," she said, poking him again. "The point is, you should be a man about your entanglements and break them off yourself, not have your secretary do your dirty work."

I was being toyed with by a madman, and the High Council thinks I’m a murderer. Do I really have time to deal with hysterical sopranos?
he wanted to say.

Instead, he smirked. "But you are so good at it, Finch. And you always know what to buy for them. How should I know what a woman wants in the way of trinkets?"

She threw her hands in the air in exasperation, waving the mask around wildly, then began shooing him towards the door. "You are impossible. I've listed my reasons for resigning, now you may leave."

He didn't budge. "No, you have just listed the reasons why you are irreplaceable to me, Finch."

"I am not irreplaceable."

"What is it you want? An assistant of your own? That is easily done."

"I don't want an assistant. I don't want ten assistants. I don't want to work for you any longer!"

"That is unacceptable. You shall come back to me if I have to drag you back by your pretty head of hair!"

Her eyes widened, and her hand went up to tangle in her luxurious mane, as if she'd just realized she'd failed to pin it back. Her cheeks flushed.
Adorably
. "You wouldn’t...”

He cocked an eyebrow.

"All right. You probably would. But it won't make any difference. I'll refuse to work. I am tired of being at your beck and call. You are exhausting."

"I've not even been here for a month!"

"Even your absences are exhausting," she amended. "Now if you don't mind..." She signaled with her mask for the door once more.

He didn't move. Her contrariness was baffling. He'd thought it would be a simple task to win her back, once they’d spoken face to face. Finch had always come around after her rare attacks of pique. Apparently, he thought wrong. This was a side of Finch he'd never seen: defiant. Undone. Angry. Stubborn.

Well, she'd always been stubborn. But he'd never thought she had even the barest inkling of true passion lurking beneath that prim, unflappable exterior. Fire flashed in her eyes behind the lenses, turning the chocolate into coppery embers. Her entire person was poised as if for battle, and her full, rosy mouth quivered with pent up emotion.

The strange, delighted warmth in his chest expanded, and in the back of his mind he knew he should start worrying.

What was happening here? He had the oddest desire to provoke her further just to see what might happen, though he knew things were getting … dangerous between them. He fell back on his original complaint, which was sure to nettle her.

"But my necktie," he murmured.

She groaned, tossed the breathing mask on her desk, and approached him. He half expected her to strike him, but instead she stuffed her handkerchief into her pocket and reached up to his collar. She began to jerk his tie into some semblance of order, muttering to herself.

He caught the words "oafish" and "selfish" and smiled. Unconsciously, he turned his head downwards and caught her familiar scent, masked in menthol lozenges at the moment. She smelled of lemon and mint soap, as always. So fresh, so properly, adorably English.

She wrenched the last knot, nearly choking him. "There."

"It is too tight." It wasn't. He just wanted her to stay where she was for a little longer.

She made an odd, strangled sound, jerked the knots free and began again. He leaned closer, closed his eyes, and breathed in Finch's scent, wondering what in hell's name had come over him. Wasn’t he supposed to be angry?

"I am going to
La Traviata
, Finch," he said softly.

She snorted and concentrated on his collar. "You've made amends with your Italian friend, then? After all the trouble I went through? Typical."

"Luciana? I believe she has gone back to Italy. No doubt on the proceeds of the rather extravagant parting gift I left her."

She snorted again.

"What
was
the gift?" he inquired.

"A rather flashy garnet brooch. But not flashy enough for Madame.”

"Garnet. Interesting choice."

"I am fond of garnet,” she murmured.

"Hmm. The color of your eyes," he mused. Not chocolate after all.

She shrugged, trying not to look affected by this personal observation, but he noted the flare of color creeping up her neck. He smiled.

"
Aida
is your favorite opera, is it not, Finch?"

Her hands stilled for a moment. He'd hit his mark at last. Finch loved opera. He'd once spied her waltzing and caterwauling to a phonograph recording of
Aida
in his office. He'd not interrupted the interlude in order to spare her mortification. But he was not feeling so generous at the moment.

"Come back to work for me, and I'll take you to the opera every week. I have the best box in the house.
Aida
is playing at the end of the month."

She hesitated. "You are jesting."

"I've never been more serious," he said, and he meant it. He needed to keep her close, after all, and he was surprised to find the notion of escorting his secretary to the opera not at all repugnant. He wouldn't mind sitting next to her, breathing in her comforting scent, watching her reaction to the drama unfolding on stage.

He eyed the collar of her robe distastefully. He'd have to buy her some new gowns of course. The brown sacks she wore would never do for the opera. Blues would suit her, and greens. Pink would definitely
not
do. And the less frills, the better.

Finch was tiny, no doubt stunted by what must have been a sickly childhood, barely reaching his collarbone, with a lithe, girlish figure and a graceful way of moving that reminded him of the bird whose name she bore. Frills would make her look like a missish debutante. No, a simple blue gown would do, one that complimented her slender little figure and didn't overwhelm her with bows and lace.

A gown, he amended, with a hemline high enough to avoid getting caught on her slippers.

He wondered how such a small, graceful-seeming creature could be the clumsiest of his acquaintance. He was always setting her back on her feet, retrieving her erstwhile spectacles, rubbing ink off her cheek. But what harm could come to her in an opera box?

She would be sitting, and there wouldn't be an inkwell for miles.

She finished her work and stepped back to survey the results.

"No," she said at last.

"Hmm?" he asked, imagining Finch in a sky blue satin gown.

"I said no to your last absurd bribe." When he didn't respond and continued instead to sniff about her hair, she began to look uncertain. "What is the
matter
with you?" she demanded.

Her sharp words snapped him out of his trance, and they stared at each other, at a mutual loss.

Indeed, he had no idea what was happening to him, but something had changed as they argued, and she felt it just as strongly as he did. Like him, she didn't understand it at all. Her cheeks turned as red as her nose, and her hand went up to the top of her robe, pulling the collar tighter.

"I ... I think it's time for you to leave…" she began.

Oh, no, he wouldn’t, not when he sensed her resolve weakening at last, despite whatever strange path they had wandered down. He cut her off by drawing closer rather than retreating, so that she was pressed up against her desk.

"I can hardly think how you shall occupy yourself without me," he teased.

She blushed even more fiercely. "Contrary to what you might think, the world –
my
world – does not revolve around you."

"Ha!" he grunted derisively.

"I have a life, you know. I have plans."

"Ha!"

Her eyes flashed. "If you must know, I am getting married."

He felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. The air went out of him. He wondered if his perfect heart had finally failed him, because he couldn't breathe for several heartbeats. This was the last thing he’d expected her to say.

"You're
what
?" he choked.

"I'm getting married," she enunciated, as if he were half-deaf.

He scowled and clenched his hands into fists. Now he was breathing rather too hard. "To whom?" And how had he not known, with all of his spies, that she even had a suitor?

"That is not your affair, but suffice to say he is a gentleman I have known for years. A nice,
undemanding
gentleman. He has been the soul of patience and forbearance during my employment to you. I have decided to accept his proposal."

He guffawed, shocked not only by her information but his reaction to it. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he breathe properly?

And why in hell was he still imagining her in blue satin?

She was looking quite pleased by his discomfiture. Well, he’d wipe that smug look off her face. "So Colonel Standish exists after all," he muttered.

The blood drained from her face. "What did you say?" she whispered.

Victory surged through his veins at the sight of her wide eyes. Finch deserved to be as unsettled as he was feeling at the moment.

Though in the part of his brain that was still rational, he knew he had lost any chance he had of a reconciliation.

"Colonel Standish. Miss Allison Wren's milksop suitor."

She stiffened, her bafflement turning to fury in the pace of a second. "
Milksop
!" she breathed. "The
Captain
is not a milksop. He is a noble, generous war hero."

"Who lets his woman run roughshod around the world with a scoundrel."

"He encourages her independence and trusts her implicitly. He is an enlightened, civilized gentleman who is willing to allow her to live her own life."

"He is a
milksop
. And his romantic drivel is nauseatingly insincere. I usually skip those parts."

She put her hands on her hips and ignored her slipping spectacles. "I assure you, the Captain's words are very sincere. He is deeply in love with Miss Wren."

"If that were so, he would have proposed to her three series back. After that vampire business in the Carpathians. No, he can't care very much for her. Doubtless, he has a doxy in every port he visits."

"He
doesn't
," she cried.

"Well, I suppose
you
know best," he shot back, pleased by her ire. He pushed even farther. "Or perhaps he's merely a coward. He's too afraid of Dr. Augustus to pursue Miss Wren like a real man."

Her mouth worked, but no sound came out. She sat down abruptly at her desk chair, shaking her head and sniffling. "How do you even
know
about the
Chronicles
?"

He gave her a devilish smile. "I know everything, Finch. Just like your Dr. Augustus. I wonder why that is so."

"You read the
Chronicles
?"

"Avidly."

“And you know that I...”

He nodded.

She swallowed. "When did you discover this?" she demanded.

"About three minutes ago, after your reaction to the Captain's name. Though I've had my suspicions for three years."

She gasped, looking too furious to speak. She looked down at her desk, picked up a glass paperweight, hesitated, and set it back down. He realized she’d considered chucking it at him and guffawed at her audacity. Instead, she threw one of the half-dozen dirty handkerchiefs littering her desk at him, then another and another.

He dodged several, but the rest hit him in the chest. "That's disgusting, Finch."

"No less than you deserve for tormenting me! For ... for laughing at me! It is mortifying that you should know!"

He held up a finger. "That you should
know
I know, you mean."

She clutched her head in her hands and groaned. "Please stop! You're making me dizzy. Just go away!"

"Not yet. First you mutiny,
then
you tell me you're getting married. I demand to know what this Standish fellow is about!"

"His name is Charles Netherfield," she moaned.

Oh, this was too good. "Neverfeel?"

"
Netherfield
," she corrected. "He's not a soldier. He's an archaeologist."

"A bone-hunter?" he scoffed.

"An archaeologist," she insisted. She uncovered her face and glanced up at him, her jaw setting at a stubborn angle. "He lectures at the same university as you, in fact, not that you would know because
you're never there
. He's quite well-respected in his field."

He tapped his finger to his chin several times in thought. "Neverfeel, Neverfeel. I think I've heard of him. He's an Egyptian specialist."

"Yes."

"How ... tedious. And dusty. How old is this bone hunter? Sixty? Seventy?"

Her eyes widened in offense, and she shot to her feet. "Why would you think he was old? Do you think me so ... so ... unattractive that only an old man would be willing to marry me?" By the end of her words, she was trembling with rage and humiliation.

Sasha was thunderstruck. He'd not meant for his quip to be interpreted in such a way, or for her to be so wounded. He'd not intended to insult her person. He had not even been thinking about her person, but rather some old fart of an historian sneezing over ancient tomes in the University library.

Of course, his picture of Neverfeel did imply he had certain assumptions about the kind of man Finch would choose for herself. And he was quite sure that Finch had chosen this Neverfeel, not the other way around. Finch loved to manage people, and she was practical to a fault. If she wanted something, she was the type to go out and get it without any nonsensical female falderal. He just assumed that was the case with husband hunting, too. She was not the type to be swayed by superficial nonsense like looks or charm, either.

She was not swayed by
him
, after all.