She led him to a comfortable sitting room on the first floor, at the front of the house. “Would you like to rest, or take a tour of the house while the tea comes?”
“The tour, please.” His throat tightened, recalling what had happened the last time they were alone together. He could assume nothing, and if he did he would destroy all his chances of getting her anywhere near his bed.
Any bed, for that matter. He wasn’t fussy, as long as she was in it.
God, what she did to him! Without even being aware of it, she pushed his arousal into heights he would not have considered possible. He had barely touched her, apart from that never to be forgotten kiss. She had roused him without being aware of it. She did not flirt, or, he suspected, even consider herself attractive.
With her simple style, her hair pulled back from her face, it only set the pure lines and high cheekbones into high relief. Her skin was so fine it almost glowed, like a flower in the moonlight. Her simple green gown with its modest hoop set her neat, but unmistakably feminine figure into high relief. She wore no frills and furbelows to disguise its beauty.
She showed him the room. “I see most of my clients here, if they want to discuss business rather than undertake it.”
“Impressive.” The room was comfortable, with a set of furniture that was solidly English, instead of gilded and frilly French. It was a fair size for a house of this stature, too, so that six people could sit here in comfort.
“There’s a smaller parlor behind so we may use it as a formal dining room, although we generally take our meals downstairs. It’s more convenient, because I can be called away at any time, and yet I get to see my sons.” She led him outside, and pushed open the door of a snug room dominated by a dining table.
As if on cue, a wail sounded from above. “Mama!”
A female voice drifted after. “Hush, your mama will be here directly.”
She shot him an apologetic glance. “We take breakfast early. My aunt has taken the boys upstairs to prepare them for the day.”
“How old are your sons?”
“Five and three.”
He nodded. “So they are not yet breeched.”
She smiled. “That is true, although I have plans for William. He is a big boy, and dislikes his gowns exceedingly, so I fear I will have to breech him sooner rather than wait awhile.”
“Do they have a tutor?” Some Cits prided themselves in the intelligence of their children and had them taught early, so they would be ready to enter the business. Very few bothered with university. What was the point, when they needed to work in the real world?
To his consternation her brow furrowed. “I will have to find one soon. We are teaching them their letters and numbers, but I want my boys to learn at least one other language. It will be useful for them. French, because we deal with so many Huguenots. Most speak English, but I want to understand them.”
He switched to French. “Parlez-vous Francais?”
“Bien sur.”
She had a pretty accent, and he enjoyed hearing her, so he continued in the language. “You live mainly upstairs? Your private quarters, I mean.”
He did not mistake the warmth that filled her eyes when she answered him. “Yes, for the most part. You can see why we want bigger premises.”
He returned to English. “Your French is better than mine.”
“So you didn’t go on the Grand Tour?”
Gerald threw back his head and laughed. “No indeed. My father was a Tory—he didn’t hold with Frenchies, as he put it. He said that most of the ills of this country could be placed at the door of the French.”
“We have many benefits from them, too.”
“Living in London taught me that.”
“Why did you do so? As I understand it, you were always rich and well-born, so you could have stayed in the country.”
Gerald gave a wistful thought to the snug estate in Hampshire that he had considered his legacy. Not the half dozen grand houses he could lay claim to now. “My sisters are intelligent women, and they each have an interest that is not so easily pursued in the country.” He paused. “Except for Dorcas whose passion is gardening. She will appreciate the vast canvases she may command now.”
At the bottom of the stairs Annie came to an abrupt halt, so that Gerald was forced to grab her shoulders from behind to prevent himself cannoning into her. The touch of her body under the fine linen of her kerchief blanked his mind.
A man stood in the hallway, watching them, his brows a hard dark line over deep-set eyes. He was as thin as Jack Spratt and looked to be about fifty. Dressed in the dark, neat garb of the Cit, he nevertheless gave off an air of wealth and consequence.
“Ah, Mr. Stephenson,” Annie said. Her voice shook a little. Who was this man who could do this to the redoubtable Annie Cathcart? “I had not realized you planned to call.”