“I will, thank you.” Robert swore he was floating a foot off the ground as they exited the house and skirted the forge.
Beth was bouncing as well. “We did it. This is an excellent lead. I can hardly wait to return to London.”
“You did it. I’d never have thought to ask David. And who would have believed that Peterborough, two days’ ride from London, would lead us to pinpoint an excellent candidate back in London. Only you.” He stopped in the middle of the road and turned to her. “You are magnificent. Beautiful, creative, smart, and”—he gestured back toward the forge—“well connected.”
And mine, he wanted to shout. He faced the truth. He was in love with Peaches, and he was going to get hurt.
Chapter Sixteen
A few days later, Beth lounged on Robert’s bed in his London home. They were back to late night forays while hefinished the last of the orders from Evan’s party.
Lying on her stomach, head propped on elbows and knees bent with feet swaying above her, she had thrown the sketches she was reviewing aside to watch him. She loved to watch him work, muscles bulging in his shirt sleeves, shoulders straining. She understood his obsession with her breasts, as she had one with his arms and shoulders.
Hating that the objects of her lust were far less visible than his, she pouted. More than that, though, his creativity, his thoughtful approach to keeping intimacy interesting for couples, his mastery of her body, and his care for her person were captivating. She was more sure every day that her fixation had edged into an emotion that would hurt when he ended their relationship.
And he would. She needed to be honest about her past. Cheltie might have shared some of it with Robert, but she needed to see his face when she shared her escapades. She was the girl men enjoyed sexual experimentation with before they settled down, married, and sired children.
Her lips twisted.
Robert looked up and tilted his head in question.
“Have you spoken to Cheltie today?” she asked.
“Yes.” He arched a brow.
“So you know he escorted Althea to a soirée with investors for her to meet, then was mean to her. They aren’t speaking. Or sexing.”
“That does not sound like Bags.” He straightened from his hunch over the work in his lap, and lowered his brows. “Even when he dismisses them or declines the many invitations he receives, he is always kind to women.”
Beth rolled and sat up, swinging her legs to hang off the side of the high bed. “Ah, but he never cared for any of them.”
He narrowed his eyes in thought, then nodded once.
“But then we met with the Dowager Countess of Peterborough, and she was lovely. She is going to fund our—Althea’s—venture in Bath.” She bounced once on the bed to punctuate her news.
Robert grinned. “And how is the lovely Charlotte?”
Beth stared at him without blinking.
How does he know Charlotte by her first name?Of course, he’d have met her through Cheltie’s friendship with her. But to call her by her given name? There must be more to that story.
She peered around the room at the leather pieces in process and wondered again where he kept his records of sales. She’d love to see who bought what, but she knew better than to ask. Robert was as careful of his network as she was of hers.
“She is well, thank you. If I had known you were acquainted, I could have passed along your regards,” she said with a wink. She’d heard whispers of the countess’s relationship with her husband—very quiet, unsubstantiated rumors, but talk nonetheless. She decided to test those, as well as her theory of how he knew Lady Peterborough.
Trailing a hand along the bedcovers as she stood, Beth wandered past him, skimming his shoulders with her fingers before she swooped to pick up the X-shaped restraints. “Do you ever allow someone else to try these on you?”
“No,” he responded with a shudder, his voice sharp.
Hmm. That response was disproportionate to the lightness of her question. The Dowager Countess of Peterborough was forgotten as Beth pursued the oddity. “Not even testing size and length and strength for male clients?”
“No.”
“Mayhap I could—” She made as though to cinch a cuff around his wrist.
He snapped to standing. “I said no.”
“Right, then. I understand. Why are you so adamant, though? You’ve never been critical of men who choose to be restrained.”
