She glared at him. “Do not play games with me.”
“Ah,” he said, still tilting backward in his chair. “Now I know you’re not saying what you mean. You’ve done nothing but play games since you arrived.”
“I…” She faltered. What was he talking about? He was the one who skulked through secret passageways, who kissed her senseless in dark corners of his mansion and then scowled at her when her limbs refused to—oh. “Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with the twins becoming trapped between the walls.”
“No,” he agreed, “I do not.”
Despite his words, the edge of suspicion never faded from his expression. And despite the ignominy of being suspected, the greater humiliation came from him remaining seated behind his desk, apparently unaffected by the unwilling attraction that had her clinging to the office door for fear she’d throw herself in his arms and tilt her face up for more kisses.
She was not jealous of Susan. She wasnot.
How could she be? Evangeline had known all her life she would never take a husband. Marriage had destroyed her mother twice over, first in spirit, then in body. The affliction—blessing, rather—of her Gift was a dangerous, double-edged thing. If Evangeline wanted to live, to be useful, to be whole, she could become the legal property of no man.
Especially not one like Mr. Lioncroft. Despite the Stantons’ machinations, Evangeline strongly suspected he of all men was not the marrying sort. Even now, in the middle of an argument, he’d returned all four legs of his chair to the floor and resumed his efforts with pen and paper rather than bother to continue discourse with her.
After a moment, her arms fell back to her sides. “To whom are you writing?”
In the twenty years of Evangeline’s life, she had never before encountered a man who failed to take advantage of an opportunity to prove his mastery, his superior strength, his ability to be “right” whether or not it was so. She knew she was acting out-of-sorts, obstinate, contradictory. And Mr. Lioncroft merely nodded, allowed her to do so at her leisure, and returned to his correspondence. Maddening, unpredictable man. She had no idea what to make of him.
“A toymaker.” He re-inked his pen. “I shall commission the finest dolls from London for the girls. They should arrive quickly.”
She blinked at him for a moment, then stepped away from the comfort of the door and closer to the front of his desk. “Dolls?”
“I’m afraid my boot shattered the original’s porcelain face. The least I can do is replace it.”
“With two?”
“The twins are two, are they not? And they should have two dolls. I am ordering an identical pair, each with a different colored bow, so there will be no cause for future rows on that score. The girls would not have gotten lost today had each possessed a plaything of her own.” He franked the parchment, placed it in the corner of his desk, returned his writing implements to their proper locations. “How lucky you were able to help me find them.”
There it was again—an edge of suspicion. Evangeline could barely concentrate on the undercurrent in Mr. Lioncroft’s voice, however, because he was rising to his feet.
What was he going to do? Why had he called her here if not to punish her for her inability to reenter that horrible dark passageway, even to rescue a small girl?
She took a step backward, grateful to have the width of the desk between them.
Rather than come around the wide teak surface toward her, he leaned his broad shoulders against the rear wall and hooked his thumbs casually in the waistband of his fawn-colored breeches in what Evangeline had come to suspect was his favorite pose, whether he realized it or not. He crossed one black leather boot atop the other and smiled. He looked powerful and rakish.
As usual. Damn him.
Dark hair fell forward across one of his eyes. He made no move to shove it from his face. Although his cream-colored waistcoat was crisply pressed and the creases of his cravat white and perfect, the faint stubble along his jaw had grown longer, thicker. If he kissed her again, she would feel it scratch against her skin.
Evangeline swallowed, shivered, sought for a safer topic than the rough texture of his cheek against hers.
To her right was the crackling fireplace. Being more than hot enough already, the last thing she needed was to get closer to its flames. Behind her was the door, but she could not quit Mr. Lioncroft’s company just yet. To her left was an oil painting in a large gilded frame, tilted slightly to one side as if recently jostled. Something was different about this painting than the other oils on canvas adorning the rest of the walls throughout his home. Something missing from the rest of the mansion…
“People,” she breathed.
Mr. Lioncroft stood. “What?”
“The rest of your artwork is landscapes. This is the first portrait I’ve seen.”
She gestured at the painting, strode forward, inspected it.
Three laughing children posed before a river. A slender blonde perched atop a large gray rock, a basket of flowers in her lap. A tall skinny boy with a fishing pole in one hand and a bucket in the other stood to one side behind her. A dark-haired little boy crouched in front, paying more attention to ruffling the golden fur of a panting dog than to his siblings or the painter.
“My family,” Mr. Lioncroft said gruffly. “Rose in the middle, David behind her, me with Wilson.”
“Wilson?”
