“Cut a smaller piece. And don’t”—he dropped his chin and gave her the sternest look he owned—“speak when there is food in your mouth. I want you to prove a distraction, but not of the appalling kind.”
She made a show of swallowing and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
John winced. The lovely lace cuff on her gown would never survive. “And—”
“No. No more rules.” She slapped her palm on the table. “Do this, don’t do that. That’s all I’ve ‘eard.”
John opened his mouth, and she rolled her eyes.
“Hhheard,” she corrected. “It’s too much. Can’t I jus’ eat me dinner in peace?”
He pushed his chair back and stood. He circled the table and squatted next to her. The light citrus scent from his soaps drifted off her body, along with a hint of licorice that surprised him even as it made his mouth water. He cupped her forearm and squeezed. “We don’t have much time to mold you into a lady. If I push, it is only because I believe you are capable of transformation.”
“Truly?” She bit her lower lip, and glanced at him from lowered eyes. He knew it was a coy act, even down to that delectable waver in her voice, but knowing it didn’t stop his body from reacting.
Oh, she was good.
He snapped her napkin from her lap and dabbed at the grease on her chin. “Even dogs can be trained to have good manners. Why not you?”
She snatched the napkin from him and tossed it on the table. “I’m done eating.” She pushed her plate away and stood.
John followed her up. The aroma from her skin drew him in like a lure. He needed to change out the expensive French soaps in her toilette to something unscented.
“Of course,” he said, and took a healthy step back. “It has been a long day. Tomorrow we will begin your speech lessons, so rest well.”
Without a by-your-leave, she turned on her heel and scurried for the door.
“Netta?”
She paused, her back turned.
John padded up behind her. His hand on her shoulder made her start. “Is there anyone I should notify? Anyone who should know you’re safe and staying with me?”
The muscles under his fingers hardened. “No. There’s no one.”
As he thought. If someone had cared about this woman, he wouldn’t have let her run about the London streets at night. “Well,” he said, injecting levity into his voice. “That makes it easier for me. I won’t have to worry about a disgruntled father or beau calling me out for having you under my roof.”
She snorted, something else he’d have to train out of her. A pity; she made the indelicate noise almost sound charming.
“You toffs are a funny lot.” Her curls scraped against the back of her gown as she shook her head. “You don’t care if something is wrong, only if you’ll be caught out.”
“I’d say that gives us something in common with the rest of the world, instead of setting us apart.”
“I suppose.” She sniffed. “Goodnight, then.”
He let her take a step. “Oh, and Netta?”
She stopped again, sighing. “Wot now?”
Grasping her shoulders, he turned her to face him. He held up his hand, palm up. “I’ll take that spoon.”
She rounded her mouth. Her elbows perfectly communicated shocked outrage as she planted her fists on her hips. “Well, really.”
John fought his grin. “Indeed, really. You are not so sly as you believe yourself to be. Now, hand it over.”
She crossed her arms over her bosom. “You’ve got a screw loose, you have. If you think…eek!”
With a finger hooked in the top of her bodice, he reeled her towards him.
