“I am certain you have.”
He smiled.
There was a little silence.
Without either of them realizing it, with every sentence, they’d moved just a little closer to each other, as though pulled by some invisible tide. The distance between them seemed to pulse, the awareness so dense he could almost grab handfuls of it.
Oh, how he loved the delicious period between nascent lust and the animal satisfaction of it; he loved the serrated anticipation, the not knowing, and yet knowing. He was going to enjoy every bit of it while he was here. Widows were theidealtemporary lovers.
“And I intend to call it the Duchess of Brexford’s Den of Iniquity,” he said softly.
Her eyes flew wide in astonishment.
Her jaw dropped.
And then she released a full-throated shout of mirth that showed all of her teeth, and good God that laugh was the best thing he’d ever heard.
“Oh.” She wiped her eyes. “Oh, my.”
He was basking. Quite stunned, really.
“I take it you’re familiar with my stepmother, then.”
“A gaming hell is a perfect tribute to her. She is anawfulperson,” she said fervently.
“You don’t know the half of it, Mrs. Breedlove.”
He wasn’t about to enlighten her. He wagered she’d look at him another way entirely if she knew what he suspected.
“She is always trying to steal our cook. Our cook learned her lesson the hard way and will not work for her at any price. And she also once fired Dot.”
“Dot? Is she the maid with eyes like a baby owl’s? Ye Gods. She dropped the coal scuttle in my room this morning and it wobbled for a good ten minutes if it wobbled one and it took another year of my life. I suppose my stepmother always did have impeccable taste in servants.”
“Poor Dot must have drawn the short straw if she was the one building your fires this morning. I think they’re all quite in awe of you. Which is another way of saying they are terrified of you.”
Mrs. Breedlove was teasing him and he considered this a triumph. A milestone. An augury of things to come, like the ravens and the pissing men.
He rewarded her with a smile.
And she abruptly turned her head just a little away again. Something about it—the turning away—called to mind a woman tugging her shawl more snugly about her to cover the bare places. A protective gesture.
“Delilah has a kind heart. And Dot came along with Delilah. Dot is ours forever, I think,” she said resignedly.
“Thatisa shame. Doubtless your resilience and fortitude will pull you through,” he said gravely.
She smiled at him again. And it was the kind of smile that made him feel as though he’d bolted champagne.
“You’ll need wrought iron flowers as well as a wrought iron fence if you’d like them to survive here by the docks, Mrs. Breedlove.”
“I think the fact that The Grand Palace on the Thames is thriving is proof enough that miracles happen, Lord Bolt.”
“I think,” he mused, “your bottom lip is a miracle.”
She went still.
Her breath left her in a little shocked sound.
It hovered near her parted lips, a tiny white ghost between them for a few seconds on the chill February air.