“It cannot be me, Miss Phoebe.”
“Whyever not? You have proven a most pleasant companion, when you are not behaving like a humorless nursemaid. I especially enjoyed your tutelage in the game of hazard. And your stories about Captain Tully and his seasick crew.”
The tension in his stomach eased as he remembered their hours together over the past week. As Phoebe had begun to recover, she had grown restless. At first, he’d given her books from his private collection, but she hadn’t been as enthralled with the history of English shipbuilding as he. Before long, she’d begged him to teach her the games played by gentlemen at Reaver’s. He’d refused, of course. Then, she’d smiled and cajoled. He’d agreed to teach her vingt-et-un. She’d gazed at the cards, a little furrow between her brows, while she nibbled her lip and slowly learned the trick of it. The next night, she’d begged to learn another game. He’d taught her faro. The night after that, he’d brought dice and demonstrated why a game would be named hazard, and why the goddess Fortuna stood in Reaver’s entrance hall.
All the while, she’d laughed and clapped her hands in delight as the dice had tumbled and the cards had flashed.
And he had craved more. More of her laughter. More of her glow.
So, he’d told her tales from his days with the East India Company. How an entire crew had been struck low, leaving only him and Captain Tully to man the sails, tossing lines to one another over the backs of the poor wretches lining the rail. Of course, he’d told her a far more amusing and pleasant version of the story—his intent had been to make her laugh, not cast up her accounts.
Now, he looked down into blue eyes, soft and bright, and felt again the need. To hear her laugh. To make her smile. To please her.
“It should not be me,” he repeated.
“Nonsense,” she said, inching closer. “Come with me, Mr. Shaw. Surely a breath of air would be refreshing for you, as well.”
A lovely innocent from Hampshire should not have to learn the realities of his world. He wished it were not necessary. But, as he’d realized countless times through countless experiences, one was better off seeing the jagged rocks before one ran aground.
“I cannot accompany you,” he said. She opened her mouth to protest, but he grasped her shoulders and leveled his gaze with hers. “If others see us together, they will not take it kindly.”
She frowned as though puzzling through the strategy of vingt-et-un. “We shall bring a chaperone, then. Perhaps Edith could—”
“I am Indian, Miss Phoebe.”
“You are also English.”
“I do not appear so, whereas you are a perfect English rose.”
Her frown deepened, her mouth tightening. “And you are quite the handsomest man I have ever seen. If others cannot abide the sight of us together, then let them look away. They are blind, in any case.”
Warmth filled him, unaccustomed and breath-stealing. She was a brave girl, but he suspected most of that bravery stemmed from naivety. She simply had no idea how cruel the world could be.
He dropped his hands and stripped off a glove. Next, he lifted her wrist and removed one of hers. Then, he held her bare hand in his and directed her gaze downward. “You see?” he said, enjoying the softness of her silken palm far too much. “This is why.”
Her fingers intertwined with his, forming a weave of dark and light. “This is lovely,” she whispered.
God, she was innocent. And a pretty, blushing temptation. He tugged his hand away, donned his glove, and returned hers. “I shall come with you,” he said, his voice a bit raspier than it should be. “On the condition we take a carriage.”
“Oh, but—”
“That is my condition. I won’t have you catching your death. Neither will I risk your reputation after going to great lengths to protect it.”
Grudgingly, she agreed, and a half-hour later they rolled along Piccadilly, rocking each time frigid gusts battered the coach. Edith sat alongside Phoebe, tense and watchful as rain slammed the window. Phoebe, by contrast, remained wide-eyed and smiling, seemingly delighted by the numerous shops, from booksellers to grocers.
“Mr. Shaw,” she murmured between gusts. “I wish to walk.”
“I wish to remain dry,” he retorted. “You agreed to the carriage, if you’ll recall.”
Although she did not argue, her mouth turned mutinous—an increasingly familiar expression. Her hands worried at the edge of the blanket he’d also insisted upon.
Another blast of rain hit his window, drawing his attention to the team of horses struggling with a heavy load beside them. The horses balked and shied, taking the cart around in a circle. The disruption created havoc, and their carriage slowed to a rocking stop.
Distracted by the scene out the window, he felt a blast of cold air moments before he heard Edith’s gasp. “Mr. Shaw! She—she is …”
“Bloody hell,” he gritted, leaping through the open carriage door and chasing the escaping Phoebe Widmore out into the icy rain. He spotted her ten feet away, her pert little backside twitching this way and that. By heaven, he thought, tugging his hat lower and his greatcoat collar higher. He’d thought her biddable. Sweet.
Pure rubbish. She was a hoyden.
He trotted to catch up, his eyes scanning the busy street for potential problems. Fortunately, most Londoners were sane enough not to go out in such conditions, and if they did, they were too busy trying to stay dry to take notice of an English rose and an Indian chap.
“What in blazes are you doing?” he hissed as he reached her side.
She didn’t answer.
“Phoebe, I am warning you. I will lift you in my arms and carry you back to the coach.”
“No, you won’t. You shall walk beside me.” She looped her arm through his as though they went strolling together through horrid rain and wind every day. “Because to do otherwise would draw too much attention.”
She was right, of course, which did little to ease his temper.
“Stubborn chit,” he muttered, cringing as a blast of rain slapped him in the face.
Before long, they arrived at Green Park, and he sighed in relief. He saw only one or two other idiots braving the conditions for a chance to enjoy the park’s dubious charms. This time of year, the few trees were bare, the skies dark as iron, and the turf sodden as a washrag.
He glanced down at the mud. “These are my best boots, dash it all.”
Her bonnet tipped closer to him. “They will come clean.” Droplets flew upward as she raised her chin. “So will you. So will I.”
“For God’s sake, Phoebe, let us return—”
“I was suffocating,” she said softly, periwinkle eyes calm and defiant. “I needed to breathe.” She released him to turn in a circle, ending with her back to him. Her shoulders heaved. One hand braced on her hip. The other settled over her belly.
A particularly strong gale thrust her skirts sideways, flattening along one leg and ballooning out along the other. She did not budge. Every so often, her slender shoulders would shudder and sigh.