He seemed to consider this.
His brow furrowed slightly as he looked out across their beloved parlor.
“Americans always seem as though they’ve been hewn from a log with an axe, don’t they?”
Angelique stared at him in astonishment.
“A big log. A dull axe,” he clarified, turning to her, as though her silence was instead a request for specifics.
“Perhaps they thrive away from the dismal English climate and the shade of the towering importance of notorious aristocrats.”
His grin grew slowly, wickedly, as if he thought this was a darling,darlingthing to say. As if he’d known she’d had it in her.
That grin stole her breath. It spread in her chest and heated her veins like a bolted liqueur. No doubt petticoats slid to ankles of their own accord when he deployed that smile, much the way snakes are said to undulate from baskets when a charmer blows a flute.
For a distinct instant, she was dazzled blind.
She was hardly a green girl. It was only a smile. And like liqueur, the effects would eventually fade. It meant nothing at all in the long run.
How lucky she was to be mature enough now to realize these things. And just two days ago she’d found a tiny fine line next to her left eye. She liked that line. It suited her, frankly. And it meant she was still alive and thriving and nearly thirty years old and she needn’t feel athingabout this man if she didn’t want to. She’d begun looking forward to discovering the ways in which she would become dashing, like Mrs. Pariseau, who sported two broad silver stripes in her raven hair.
His mouth returned to its usual state until his expression became something more difficult to interpret. “Speculative” she might have called it. Perhaps even a bit “troubled.”
“And Mr. Delacorte...” He studied the man, who was chortling over a move he’d just made in chess.
He turned to her in all seriousness. “WhatisDelacorte?”
It was a fair question.
“Enthusiastic and kind-hearted,” she said firmly.
He tipped his head in a “oh, come now” gesture.
She said nothing more. She pressed her lips together.
He took another sip of brandy.
“Mrs. Pariseau seems a delight,” he offered.
“All of our guests are delights,” Angelique said evenly.
For some reason this made him smile. He gave his fingers a drum on the little table. “I find I should like a cheroot. To take the edge off of the nerves, you see. The tension of the chess game and the knitting and theembroidery. How many times does she stab herself nightly?” He gestured at Dot.
“You’ve noticed.”
“My dear Mrs. Breedlove, I notice everything.”
The sudden clash of their gazes turned the word “everything” into an intimacy. She decided she would not look away. Perhaps one became more accustomed to Lord Bolt if he was administered in a series of consistent small doses, like opium or whiskey or one of Helga’s foul tisanes.
“‘Mrs. Breedlove’ will suffice,” she corrected evenly.
His little smile was confident. “For now,” he said easily.
She struggled with the impulse to cast her eyes ceilingward.
His smile deepened, as if he knew.
“As for your nerves, Lord Bolt, if the brandy is insufficient to steady them you will have an opportunity to smoke with Mr. Delacorte and Mr. Cassidy in a room set aside for the gentlemen.”