Or was he the young man whoknewhe would never amount to anything, and thus pushed himself harder to be louder, more charming, morefriendlythan those around him, trying to hide that worry beneath a veneer of bright colors?
Or was he the man he’d become this last decade, the man who had growntiredof pretending to be someone he wasn’t? The man who, even now, wrapped himself in the haughty iciness of a foreign baron in a strange world, wanting to be more than he was?
Aye, keep a hold of that uncertainty, it’ll make ye haughtier, which will fit the role.
Baron von Trapped had a place in this world,knewhis place in this world…unlike Bull. The Baron knew his worth, unlike Bull.
Baron von Trapped would not show uncertainty in the home of a famous courtesan, and Bull had tobethe baron right now.
The tap-tapping of the servant’s cane drew them toward what appeared to be a long gallery.
Rosie hummed softly. “Why do you think he is wearing that monocle and top hat? And carrying a cane?”
“Because he’s a penguin, obviously,” Bull muttered distractedly, his gaze flicking over thehundredsof paintings lining the walls. “Fook,” he muttered, overwhelmed by the number of artworks they’d have to search. “Excuse my French.”
This time her giggle was more of a snort. “That isnotFrench.Va te faire foutreis French.”
Was thisfunnyto her? He frowned down at her.
Rosie’s smile grew. “Moldy wankbiscuits, Bull. Remember that I am not the child you seem to recall me being.”
Nay.
Nay, there was nothingchildishabout the woman on his arm, the woman who had so recently been in his arms. The woman who had kissed him. The womanhehad kissed back.
Ye’re ancient, compared to her.
Except…
Moments ago, he hadn’t felt ancient. He’d feltalive, and it had little to do with the role he was playing…
And everything to do withher.
“My dear baron!” An older woman was sweeping toward them, dressed in the incongruous gown of a milkmaid, with long blonde pigtails passing her shoulders. “How kind of you to accept my invitation!”
Bull eyed the plunging neckline, acknowledging silently that the costume was well-made to hold her in, even if she was about thirty years past ‘maid’ status.
Heh. A well-made milkmaid.
She was clutching a—was that a baby sheep? Yes, it was, an actual baby sheep. Why would a milkmaid need a sheep? Och, was she supposed to be a shepherdess? Aye, perhaps that’s what the crook was for.
If that bodice fails, we’re going to get more than a peek of Little Bo Peep.
The wee animal was either asleep or sedated, to look so peaceful curled in her arm like that, while the other clutched the beribboned crook.
Madam Desiree turned to her servant, the penguin, and thrust the accoutrements at him. “Here, Oswald, take Pretty out for some fresh air.”
The man slid his gloved hands under the lamb’s forelegs and held the thing out at arms’ length. As the animal’s head flopped to one side, the servant intoned, “I doubt fresh air will help, Madam.”
She waved him away with a frown. “Go away, Oswald.”
The man managed to bow while holding a baby sheep, then waddled away. Bull watched him retreat from the corner of his eye and briefly wondered if he was devoted to the costume, or if the penguin costume had been chosenbecause he naturally moved like that…
Madam Desiree, the infamous courtesan, shifted her attention back to Bull and Rosie with a carefully calculated welcoming grin. “As I was saying…” She curtsied to Bull. “You honor my humble collection, Baron von Trapped.”
He cocked his brow, channeled his brother Rourke’s imperious attitude, and sneered at the paintings lining the gallery. “Hardly humble, Madam.” He kept his words clipped, his accent that of a man who learned English in the classroom. “But I suppose, if vun vere to vind interest of mere oil paint on ze canvas, zees sings vould be acceptable.”
To his surprise, Rosie gave a tinkling little giggle and pressed up against him.“In, Willy! You find interestinpaintings.”
