Chapter 3
Conundrums: Enigmatical conceits.
A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue
Francis Grose
“I can see myself to my suite from here.” Mariana slipped a coin into the errand boy’s hand. Eyes greedy and wide, he ducked a quick nod before skipping down the hotel stairs, coin clutched tight in his fist.
She considered the dim, narrow corridor before her and the set of rooms at its end, determined not to succumb to the weariness that had replaced the initial rush of relief at Nick’s continued hold on his mortal coil. He was alive, and she and her newfound lady’s maid, Hortense, had a night of packing ahead of them.
After all, she repeated to herself, she had a life to preserve in London: her children, her household, and The Progressive School for Young Ladies and the Education of Their Minds, the school she and Olivia founded a few years ago. Of course, Geoffrey and Lavinia were taken care of; her household lay in the capable hands of servants accustomed to the sporadic and prolonged absences of their employers; and the formidable Mrs. Bloomquist ran the school according to her own high and exacting standards. In all honesty, she would have to be absent from her life far longer than a few days before she would be missed. Sobering thought.
She slid her key into the door lock and twisted the handle. She was halfway across the threshold when she froze mid-step. Every lamp and candle in the sitting room was ablaze, illuminating Nick’s rangy form sprawled across a peacock blue dupioni silk settee, an idle ankle balanced atop a muscular thigh. He lowered the book he was reading and silently regarded her as if she was the interloper. His ease with the situation set her teeth on edge.
“Your beard is gone.” Her first observation was cool, steady, and at complete odds with the tumult she felt to her very core. “And your clothes . . . Now you look like a newly released prisoner.”
“That was the idea.”
She wouldn’t mention how the short crop of his hair suited him as it framed the strong angles of his face and the thick, black lashes encircling his piercing gray eyes. As the flickering light cast his features in light and relief, it was a fact that he was unbelievably handsome. Not only handsome—it was too thin a word for him—but unbelievably appealing. Nick was the sort of man who drew women without an ounce of effort, no matter the length of his hair or the quality of his clothing.
She tore her eyes away, dropped her reticule onto the nearest table, and pushed the door shut with her shoulder. She pressed her back against it on the slender hope that her quivering legs would firm up soon. They weren’t quite ready to move toward the sitting area . . . toward Nick.
He held up the book in his hands. “Interesting reading selection.”
The book would bethatbook. A betraying blush flared to the surface, and, like a green schoolgirl, Mariana rushed to explain herself. “In my haste to depart London, I mistook it for another book and tossed it into my bag.”
Nick’s brows lifted in bemusement. “Is that so?” He opened the book. “I see from this dog ear that you’ve made it well into the C’s.” His voice softened as his gaze roved across the pages. “Cotswold Lion. A sheep. Cotswold in Gloucestershire is famous for its breed of sheep. Useful little tidbit. Your Uncle Bertie would certainly agree with that assessment of his beloved fold. Let’s see . . .” He scanned further down the page. “Much of the page is given over to Covent Garden, famous, it seems, for its fruit, flowers, herbs, theaters, and brothels. One must be careful not to contract theCovent Garden Aguefrom aCovent Garden Nun. All seems to be in order there.” A dry laugh scrubbed the back of his throat. “Covey. A collection of whores. What a fine covey here is, if the Devil would but throw his net!” Nick’s amused gaze lifted and found her.
Impossibly, Mariana’s blush grew hotter. “Mrs. Bloomquist confiscated the dictionary from one of the girls.”
“That’s quite an education the school is providing its students.”
“And she entrusted it to me to dispose of properly.” She wouldn’t mention that the guilty party happened to be her precocious niece, Lucy.
“I’m not sure the wordproperlyshould ever be spoken in connection toThe Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue.”
“It’s written in English, and there are no other books,” Mariana snapped. “Besides, I’ve found it . . . enlightening.” Oh, how she wished she could stop blushing and explaining herself.
“Right.” Nick’s fingers drummed a hollow tattoo across the leather book cover. “I see you decided to take my hotel suite.”
“You weren’t using it,” she said. “Besides, you can have it back on the morrow. I depart for England at first light.”
A puzzled smile reached his eyes. “Since when did you ever listen to me?”
Mariana bristled at his words, at the assumption that lay within them, but she refused to rise to it. “I listened to myself.”
Again, his fingers tapped embossed leather, except now his lips had drawn into a firm line, humor evaporated.
She cleared her throat, hoping to clear the air of the sort of charged moment that tended to stretch between them, and summoned a healthy dose of self-righteousness. “You mustn’t enter this suite at will. You relinquished your right to it when you went missing.”
“A husband has rights,” he said, his voice that of a perfect popinjay.
“You tossed those out with the rubbish some years ago,” she stated with a bravado she didn’t feel. Rather, an unsettled and exposed feeling charged her senses. How was it that he still continued to hold the power to reduce her to this state? A touchy girl composed of raw nerves wasn’t the woman she’d spent the past decade cultivating. “What about my lady’s maid? What did you do with her?”
“She has been dismissed for the night.”
“Just like that?”
