Her gaze flew to Spencer’s. That was what she called herself in her mind—it felt so intimate on his lips.
She tried not to look at his lips.
“You know,” he said, “that you didn’t steal these necklaces.”
“I know. Of course I know.”
“Do you?” He reached out, trailed one finger over the edge of her satin glove, which drooped just above her elbow. “It’s not your fault that you have the jewels. You were not the one who stole them. If this doesn’t come off, we’ll find another way, even if I have to leave the thing in Noake’s robes when he gets dressed in the Lords.”
“Oh—no—I couldn’t let you—”
“It’s not your fault,” he said again. “And you’re not alone.”
Looking at him—at the sturdy confidence in his solid frame, the calm security in his face—she almost believed him. It was so tempting to believe him. She felt herself in a state of constant tension, trying to remember that none of this was real.
She was not his countess. She didn’t live in the elegant house at Number Twelve Mayfair; the library and the big copper tub and the hot water at all hours of the day were temporary luxuries.
You won’t be here long,he’d said.Everything will go back to the way it was.
The carriage slowed to a halt, and the corner of Spencer’s mouth turned up. “Come,” he said. “Let’s give back some diamonds.”
Of course, it was absurdly difficult to keep the front door within their sights. The Marchioness of Yardsley kept trying to beckon them into a sitting room, and Spencer and Winnie were forced to make increasingly absurd excuses not to go.
First, Winnie pretended to be unable to untie her pelisse. This ruse had the advantage of some accuracy, as her fingers were trembling. It had the disadvantage of making the new Countess of Warren appear an utter ninny, and she feared to let it go on too long before Spencer’s friends became concerned for her faculties. Eventually she relented and gave her pelisse to the footman, who took it into the small parlor temporarily functioning as a cloak room.
After the pelisse incident, Spencer exercised his own invention to keep them within sight of the entry. He gave his hat to the footman and then decided, bizarrely and without explanation, that he needed it back.
Feeling mildly frantic, Winnie proceeded to ask several pertinent questions about the art on every single wall visible from the entryway. Lady Yardsley looked puzzled, but answered cheerfully enough.
After that, with an expression of faint desperation, Spencer inquired whether the marquess still kept his hounds, and then asked to go into the kennels to visit them.
Whilst Spencer was off communing with dogs, Baron and Baroness Noake blessedly and belatedly arrived for dinner. Winnie felt faint with relief.
The Noakes were presented by the Yardsleys’ butler, and Winnie went to work memorizing the precise details of the baron’s overcoat.
Black, of course. Double-breasted. Ivory buttons. And—one small mercy—a striped satin lining of white and violet. She’d be able to pick out that lining easily amidst all the other outerwear in the cloak room. She thanked Providence for Noake’s unexpected taste in interior facings.
When Spencer returned—his face windblown and his jacket lightly flecked with dog hair—Winnie caught his arm and drew him off to the side of the sitting room. She went up on her toes to bring her mouth closer to his ear.
“I’ve got it,” she murmured. “I can recognize Noake’s greatcoat.”
His hand went to her waist, steadying her. It was… large. Warm. Extremely distracting. “Excellent. During dinner?”
She put her hand on the small of his back in recompense. Was this too much touching for polite society? She did not know. She couldn’t remember what the etiquette book had said. In fact, with the heated rumble of Spencer’s voice in her ear, she wasn’t sure she could recall how to read.
“Yes,” she said softly. “During dinner.”
“You have the jewels on your person?”
She glanced briefly down at her bosom. The necklace was stuffed underneath her breasts, levering them rather higher in her stays than they might normally have been. “Yes. I’m ready.”
His hand on her waist tugged her ever-so-slightly closer. Her gaze lifted, meeting his.
He was smiling, just a little. “Yes,” he said, “you are.”
His confidence warmed her. Steadied her. She wanted to lean into him and let him take her weight.
But the jewels pressed into her skin, a tangible reminder of why she was here. She made herself smile back—as though she too were confident, as though her smile were not a lie—and went on his arm into dinner.
