“That’s partly what made it so diverting! No one but my mother has ever insulted me to my face before.” She twinkled up at him unrepentantly. “Do it again. Tell me my eyes are dull as dirt, my hips horrendously mannish, my lips as boring as cucumber sandwiches.”
He was horrified to realize that the exact opposite was suddenly, appallingly true. Her limbs were as delicate as a dancer’s, her lips distractingly plump and kissable, her warm brown eyes perfectly framed by dark, coquettish lashes.
His traitorous body was far too aware of her in all the most dangerous ways.
He released his hold on her as if her flesh could scald. “I liked you better when I thought you were a lad.”
“You liked me!” She clapped her hands together in approval. “I told you we were meant to be friends. Although I must admit, you do look…”
Max folded his arms over his chest and glared at her in silence.
He looked what? Common? Like the son of a dockworker and an immigrant? He was proud of who he was and where he came from, and certainly did not need some moppet in men’s breeches with a privileged accent to worm her way into his private territory, only to—
“—less demonic than advertised,” she finished with an irritated sigh.
He found himself at a complete loss for words.
She dug a folded scrap of foolscap from her coat pocket and tossed it onto his desk in disappointment. “I was hoping for hooves.”
The caricature.
A few months earlier, he had become the object of an anonymous caricaturist’s pen. He had been depicted as the overlord of a hellish den of vice. Flames licked from the edges of the sketch, highlighting the manic faces of the gamblers surrounding him as well as a tell-tale pair of cloven hooves where his boots ought to be.
The symbolism was far from subtle, even without the biting caption:The road to me is paved with gold intentions.Thousands of damning prints had circulated London in a matter of hours.
Was that why she was here? To see for herself if he were man or demon?
He tilted his head and considered her.
As both the owner of a gaming hell and a man who had survived despite every obstacle thrown in his path, Max was well used to having to make quick judgments about those he came in contact with.
He could recognize both thieves and thief-takers at a hundred paces. Had avoided knives in the back both metaphorical and physical. Had become associates with the unlikeliest of individuals. The enemy of those who sought to destroy him.
Despite the ignominious circumstances of their meeting, the young lady before him seemed eccentric, but solid. His muscles relaxed. This woman’s motives were unclear, but she was neither a thief nor a knife-wielder. The impression she gave was of someone looking for a friend, not trouble.
None of which meant she was welcome in Max’s club.
She threw herself atop his overstuffed settee as if she belonged there. “Are you wondering who I am?”
“I’ll presume…a very confused and lost young lady,” he ground out.
“The trousers didn’t trip you up one bit,” she agreed approvingly. Her brow creased and her expression turned pensive. “I knew there was no point to wearing stays. Or bothering with side curls.”
“Is there ever a point to stays?” he asked sarcastically. “You look ravishing.”
She bolted upright. “Areyou thinking of ravishing me?”
“I am not thinking of ravishing you,” he bit out in exasperation.
Her eyes widened. “You don’t ravish women?”
“I ravish plenty of women,” he assured her, no longer certain what exactly they were discussing.
She tilted her head. “Just not me?”
“Not you,” he said firmly. “I’m still leaning toward tossing you out on your ear.”
“Itisthe breeches,” she murmured to herself. “I shall wear them always.”
