The console table near the foot of the stairs was a Chippendale. The mahogany longcase clock, by John Brown of Edinburgh, dated from the middle of the previous century. And the small oil of pastoral greenery set above the console table had been painted by none other than John Constable himself.
He had the strange sensation that she thought his house passable—nothing grand, but passable. In her swift glances there had been a certain familiarity. She recognized the pieces in the hall for what they were. And what they were merited the fleeting attention she directed their way and no more.
Her gaze returned to him. “Thank you,” she said. “For coming to my aid.”
Her eyes. When she looked at him full on, it gave him gooseflesh. “You shouldn’t have been out alone this late,” he said, more harshly than he intended.
“Yes, it was terribly asinine of me.” Her face lowered. Her fingers twisted the rim of her hat. “I’m afraid I haven’t the luxury of a footman.”
“Why not?”
She looked and sounded highborn enough to have half a dozen footmen at her disposal. She was too old—and too striking-looking—to not already be married. Had she slipped out for an adulterous rendezvous?
She lifted her head. Their eyes met. The skin just above his collarbone tingled. “Haven’t got any lizards in my kitchen,” she said, a trace of wistfulness beneath her matter-of-fact tone.
Her answer made no sense until he recalled that in Perrault’s story of Cinderella—his and Bertie’s governess had been an enthusiast of such tales—lizards were what the Fairy Godmother had turned into footmen, to accompany Cinderella on her nocturnal forays into Society.
“Not a pumpkin in your kitchen either?”
Her lips curved slightly. “Pumpkins aren’t in season.”
Her mouth was all expressive mobility when she spoke. It was a second or two before he realized that she was waiting for him to respond, and all he did was stare at her mouth, at its slightly uneasy twists and slants. Awareness flooded him: He was sexually attracted to her, in a manner he was not accustomed to—abrupt and primal.
“Would you…like some whiskey?” he heard himself ask.
“Well…” Her voice waffled with indecision. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“No, no trouble at all,” he said, in a tone he did not remember ever using with any woman who wasn’t related to him—a gentle, careful tone, as if she were made of spun glass.
He held out his arm toward her. His gesture surprised her. She came within touching distance of him and gazed at his proffered arm a few heartbeats before placing her hand about his elbow, her touch so light that he wondered whether her fingers weren’t simply floating above his sleeve.
Then her gloved hand settled a little more firmly, and his entire arm prickled. This close she smelled of strawberries at their ripest, the decadent scent of it rising from her like steam from a perfumed bath. He wanted to stick his nose in her hair and inhale until his lungs burst. He wanted to ingest her.
She let go of his arm as soon as they reached the study. He turned on the lamp, located the decanter of whiskey and two glasses. She again assessed his house, her head bent, her eyes busy. The study held a miscellany of incense holders and ivory carvings from his days in India, alongside the compilation of law books he’d been forced to accumulate to educate himself in the intricacies and precedents of English Common Law.
He poured them each a splash of whiskey.
“You extend such courtesy toward me,” she said, accepting the glass. Did she take care that her fingers did not brush against his? “I could be your neighbor’s scullery maid.”
He could not see her as anyone’s servant; she was singularly lacking in subservience. And he had not failed to notice the elegance of her motion, or the delicacy with which she held her glass. She had been raised in refinement, her physical grace effortless—thought-less, almost, a habit too long ingrained for her even to notice. “Are you somebody’s scullery maid?”
“No.” She laughed, a sere, brittle sound. “Not currently, at least.”
“What are you, then?”
“A nobody.” She took a large swallow of her whiskey. “Most decidedly.”
He tasted her bitterness on his tongue, like a trace of quinine. “Good,” he said. “I was beginning to fear you were London’s most celebrated courtesan, over whom I shall wreck my promising young political career.”
What he said startled her. And pleased her. Her lips formed something that almost might pass for a genuine smile. “Well then, fear not. I’m no La Dame aux Camelias.”
“No, you are only Cinderella,” he said. “Tell me, what’s Cinderella doing in town, without her coach, her footmen, or her ball gown?”
She glanced down at her glass, already almost empty. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Something went terribly awry at the ball.”
“What happened? Did her prince turn into a frog when she kissed him?”
“Oh, an absolutely fulsome toad.”