A hunted expression flickered across his face. He gazed at his brandy as if wondering if he could swim away in it.
“Gentlemen?” he echoed, finally, with a certain black amusement.
“Surely you, of all people, should understand the gradations of the word.”
He studied her with amazement.
“‘Me, of all people,’” he quoted slowly, sounding impressed and perversely pleased.
Hell’s teeth. It was safe to say she’d veered badly from her original diplomatic mission. And yet like a cart hurtling downhill, she couldn’t seem to control it.
The little smile lingered on his lips. There was a dimple at the corner of his mouth and it took all of her fortitude, suddenly, not to stare at it.
“I generally like Americans, mind you, Mrs. Breedlove,” Lord Bolt said conversationally, as if this had been the topic all along. “They’re forthright, on the whole. Less prone to machinations, as it were. They’re useful when the mast of your ship has toppled and you need some brute to shove it upright again.”
“Ah. Is your own strength not up to the task, Lord Bolt?”
He leaned back in his chair, relaxing as a theatergoer might when it became clear the show he’d paid to see was going to be entertaining. When he crossed his legs, Angelique saw that Mrs. Pariseau was right: his boot toes reflected the little chandelier overhead. They were proud of that chandelier: it meant they weren’t only surviving, they’d actually made enough money to buy a new chandelier for this particular room. Everything else in the house had been cobbled together from ingenuity and scraps. It was beautiful. She had only lately dared to want more.
And that’s what that little building nearby represented. He hadbetternot turn it into a gaming hell. They had only just succeeded in persuading a certain stubborn and permanently drunk gentleman to lie against another building, and they had made inroads into the number of men who relieved themselves within view of the guests’ windows.
“Whilst I am capable of assisting in shoving a fallen mast upward again, getting men to do the mast shoving for you is the difference between strength and power. Guess which one I find more appealing.”
“The one that makes you feel superior would be my guess.”
He did not reply. Unless eyebrows diving a little could be considered a reply.
Instead he regarded her thoughtfully.
She wondered if these silences were strategic. It gave them naught to do but stare at each other, and the longer she looked at him the less she preferred not looking at him.
He frowned faintly. “Have I given you some reason to dislike me, Mrs. Breedlove?”
Hell’s teeth.
She’d asked for that.
Moreover, she deserved it.
But she also rather liked it. Angelique was not fond of machinations, either. Nearly her entire life until she’d met Delilah had been a series of compromises and contortions primarily designed to suit some man’s whims.
Most of the reasons she disliked him were, more accurately, reasons he ruffled her composure. She sensed he’d very much like knowing he ruffled her composure, so there wasn’t a chance in Hades she’d tell him. The entire point of Lord Bolt seemed to be composure ruffling.
“Lord Bolt...” She leaned forward a very little, and began with some effort at her usual dulcet tones, “My friend Mrs. Hardy and I founded The Grand Palace on the Thames from what was essentially a ruin. It is thriving beyond our wildest dreams, for which we are grateful. It is our home. We cherish—I see your eyebrow has twitched at the word, but nonetheless—our guests and we find that their comfort is owed in large part to the company they find here. We take great pride in their enjoyment of each other. And furthermore, I like these people. I fear I cannot tolerate hearing them insulted or witnessing them made to feel uncomfortable when you know better. It pains me greatly.”
He was absolutely motionless. He appeared to listen to this with every evidence of absorption.
It was a tick or two before he spoke. Behind her, she heard the tiny “click” of a chess piece being removed from the board.
“You likeallof them?” He said this skeptically.
“Most of the time, yes.”
He smiled at this, as if that had been a test and she’d passed.
“Ouch!” Dot muttered behind them.
“Mrs. Breedlove... what do you suppose I did between the time I was fished from the Thames a decade ago until the moment I walked through your door?”