“I don’t blame her. She was deliberately provoked,” said Cinderella, smiling still.
“Yes, poor Fr?ulein Eisenmueller. I suppose I did provoke her. I didn’t like the way she thought I was corrupt for my age, because I hadn’t led a sheltered life.” He felt himself grinning. “I dare say I knew more of what Snow White could conceivably do with all those shortish men than her spinster’s mind could comprehend.”
He shouldn’t speak of such things to her. It was inappropriate. And he was never inappropriate, beyond that one frustrated instance with Fr?ulein Eisenmueller. Bertie, who loved all the pleasures of the senses with the abandon of a Georgian roué, had called Stuart a dried-up prig.
“Your poor governess,” she murmured.
“Pity me instead. She made me think I was some sort of irredeemable degenerate until I got to Rugby, whereupon I immediately saw that the majority of boys were degenerates and I was but a year or ten ahead of my time.”
What was it about her that made him disclose—with such alacrity—aspects of himself that others couldn’t pry out of him with a crowbar and the patience of a Count de Monte Cristo?
She shot him a considering look. “What of men? Are they as much degenerates as boys?”
His heart beat faster. “They would like to be,” he said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact. “But most of them lose what audacity and passion they once possessed as lads, so they think the thoughts but dare not do the deeds.”
The distant clacking of hooves reminded him that despite his wishes otherwise, they weren’t out for a pleasant stroll before returning to his house. His time with her was limited.
He stopped and raised his walking stick.
She looked a little surprised, almost as if she too had forgotten the business about the hansom cab. “What of you?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“Have you lost your youthful audacity and passion? Or are you still a degenerate at heart?”
His heart now pounded. He wasn’t so dense that he couldn’t tell when a woman flirted with him. She was flirting with him.
“Would you like to find out?” he said. He wasn’t a flirt. He could not take her question lightly.
Panic flashed in her eyes. The cab drew up next to them. The horse snorted. She let out a breath of relief. “Alas, we’ve no more time,” she said, her voice high-pitched, her words a rush. “Thank you again for everything. Best of luck with your promising young political career. And good night.”
He gazed at her a moment, then inclined his head. “Midnight comes. Godspeed, Cinderella.”
It wasn’t until the carriage pulled away, with her waving from the window, her face wistful, that he realized he’d hoped to be in the cab. With her.
There had always been those who claimed that Stuart had not blood, but cold water running in his veins. He found it a strange assessment, except when it came to matters of the heart and the loins.
He seemed to have been born with a monkish temperament where women were concerned. He found the fate of nations to be of far more interest than trim ankles and pretty shoulders. Making love was like shooting grouse, an activity he indulged in when the occasion presented itself, not something he particularly sought.
What, then, was wrong with him tonight?
He wanted her. He wanted to stare at her, to smell her, to have his skin again crackle with electricity from her nearness. He wanted to devour her, to help her—and himself—find out exactly how much of a degenerate he could be when he put his mind to it.
England could declare a new war tonight and he wouldn’t care.
“Where to, sir?” someone called out to him.
Another hansom cab had drawn up to the curb. The cabby looked at him expectantly. He forgot that he had not moved since she left, that he still stood at the edge of the street, as if he too were waiting for a carriage.
Wasn’t he? Her voice had been quiet, but it had carried to him on a playful breeze. Sumner House Inn, Balham Hill. Balham Hill was in Clapham, a good three miles away. He’d need a carriage.
He meant to shake his head, to take himself home and change for Lady Arlington’s ball. His life was Inner Temple, the Palace of Westminster, and the Season in full swing. There was no room for mysterious strangers and needless entanglements.
Besides, what innkeeper worth his salt would let him in at this hour? And what assurance had he that even if he could lie, cheat, and steal his way past the innkeeper, she’d allow his presence in her room for more than three seconds?
“Sumner House Inn, Balham Hill,” he told the cabbie.
Chapter Six
November 1892
Dear Madame,
I’d like to review your menus for the day.
Your servant,
Stuart Somerset
Dear Sir,
For luncheon, a roast beef sandwich.
For dinner, four roast beef sandwiches.
Yours humbly,
Verity Durant
Dear Madame,
A roast beef sandwich for luncheon is fine.