She missed my arrival and startled when I sat beside her. I opened the umbrella and held it over us both without a word.
Her eyes shot to mine with precision. I offered a half grin and a shrug. “Didn’t want you to catch a chill. If you took ill, who would supervise my daily activities?”
“You…”
“Me. You can come inside if you like. It’s not much, but it’s warm and dry. Or you can stay here. But please, take the umbrella if you want to stay out here.”
“You’re inviting me in?”
“Well, yes. But decide quickly, please. I don’t fancy spending the afternoon in a damp coat.”
“All right.” She stood, graceful even in a too-long dress that was quite soaked through. She brushed past me on her way through the office door, smelling of vanilla, rain, and something richer I couldn’t name.
“Lady Rycliffe, good to see you,” Kit said. He’d moved from my office door to his own and grabbed another tart in the process. He spoke with the bemused tone he usually reserved for me.
I shot him a look as I shook off the umbrella and set it beside the door to drip dry.
“Lord Leighton,” she nodded. His eye gave the requisite twitch at the mention of his title, but he didn’t protest. It was a depressing kind of progress. It signified yet another step away from this office and toward his new duties.
“Kit, would you grab one of the blankets?” We used them on particularly cold days in winter when no amount of firewood could keep out the chill. He wandered off in search of one. Hopefully they were not too terribly musty.
The clerks made a valiant effort to ignore the magnificently beautiful, incredibly damp woman in the room, but I doubted they could feign disinterest much longer. If Bates was making any effort to hide his interest, it wasn’t a very impressive one. I could hardly blame the man though. I was no better, noting the enticing way her damp skirts clung to her legs.
Kit returned and started to hand her a bundled blanket, but I grabbed it from him. I unfurled it and shook it for any dust or debris—or worse—that might have made its home there in the last few months. Satisfied it was passably clean, I wrapped it around her shoulders, only realizing the intimacy of the gesture when my hands met over her heart. We found ourselves so close, our breaths mingling in the space between us.
A pointed cough from Kit’s direction had her jumping away as my hands released the edges of the rough, dark wool.
“Will’s office is the warmest. You should settle in there. You can discuss any issues you might need a solicitor for while you’re in there,” Kit said, nodding toward my doorway, as though everyone in the room was not perfectly aware of which was mine. As if we all hadn’t watched eagerly as she stared at it for days.
She chose to follow his suggestion and led the way. Kit waggled his brows in a ridiculous manner behind her back. Mentally devising tortures for him, I followed her into the room and shut the door behind us. She made herself comfortable in one of the chairs reserved for guests.
I took a minute to appreciate the flush on her cheeks and the way her lashes clung together from the rain as I sat before her. Her coiffure was sad and half escaped, and she was all the lovelier for it.
When it became apparent that she would never break the silence, I finally spoke. “Do you wish to tell me why you’ve been following me?”
Her teeth caught her lower lip. Devil take me if that wasn’t the most fetching sight I’d ever seen. “Not particularly.”
“Shall I guess?”
“I wish you wouldn’t.” Her accent was different from the night of the ball, and our one prior conversation. Neither distinctly English nor French, it swirled like half-mixed paint.
I refused further musings on that point, for that way lay danger. Instead, I debated pressing her. She was more or less captive in my office.
“Very well. Would you like a tart?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A tart, from Hudson’s. Would you like one? We have raspberry, apple, and lemon, though Kit may have taken the last of the apple.”
“Lemon please.” I stepped around her and into the main room, grabbing the basket so she could select one herself. She probably did not wish for inky fingers all over her pastry.
“Do you work with Mrs. Ainsley?” she asked.
“I do, have since she opened the place, actually. She could pay me solely in those tarts and I would die a happy man.”
At my prodding, she took a bite. Her eyes slid closed and a small smile crossed her lips. Considering Mrs. Ainsley’s tarts tasted like a warm hug, the reaction wasn’t unusual.
Distracted as she was by delectable treats, I pressed my advantage. Perhaps if I side-stepped the issue I could determine her purpose. “Is there anything you wish to ask me?”
