Foxglen swallowed but otherwise his expression did not change. “I have learned it is best to remain impassive, and I am generally not given to strong reactions. I suppose something about this endeavor makes me feel as if I was still a small child again, and it is hard to remain regulated. I do apologize for my outburst.”
“There was no outburst, Your Grace,” Hannah said as the dull pain in her heart seemed to break into something much more raw. She was certain that Foxglen did not realize how revealing his words were. It was clear that he’d been taught to act like a stiff mannequin.
“Eoin.”
“Pardon?” Hannah asked in confusion.
“Would you use ‘Eoin’ rather than ‘Your Grace’?” Foxglen asked. “It’s been so long since anyone has called me by my actual given name.”
“What were you being called by your grandfather and aunts and uncles?” Hannah asked as more unease flowed through her.
“Lord Malbarry or John—the anglicized version of Eoin.” Foxglen rattled off the information as if it meant nothing to him, yet clearly it did. But Hannah wasn’t going to force him to share his emotions. If he wanted to retreat into stoicism, then she wouldn’t pry open his defenses.
“You may call me Hannah, then, Eoin,” Hannah said, his birth name falling rather naturally from her lips—perhaps too much so. She told herself that it was simply that she wasn’t one for ceremony, especially when it came to dealing with puffed-up peers. But there was an intimacy to given names even among laborers like her.
“Hannah.” Eoin’s voice contained a hint of warmth, which curled through Hannah. A flutter started low in her stomach, and try as she might, she could not completely settle it.
“We should visit the Black Sheep tomorrow.” Hannah spoke the words hastily. Now she was the one longing for the return of pragmatism. She and Eoin—no Foxglen—were only sharing this carriage ride because of his mission and hers. They were not real lovers, and they shouldn’t be acting like ones when there was no audience.
“I’ll send a message round to the men and women who helped uncover the plot against King George.” Hannah was speaking more rapidly than normal, and she hoped that Eoin did not notice. “They might know something about the Horse and Hen.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that the tavern made you that anxious. We should have left earlier.” Foxglen frowned at her with palpable concern.
The nob’s worry had the irritating effect of softening Hannah. “I was a bit uneasy, but never truly worried. Why do you think I was?”
“Your cadence changed, and I thought it was due to pent-up fear,” Eoin explained.
Damn the perceptive man. He had noticed. Fortunately, though, he hadn’t divined the real reason for her rapid speech.
“I wasn’t fashed. I am just intent on locating your family.” There. That was a good excuse… and words that she should strictly follow.
Chapter Eight
The Black Sheep bubbled with life. The front room was loud and noisy with men jostling for seats and shouting to be heard. But the back room was the perfect marriage of literary salon and cheerful pub. Chairs and divans—more comfortable than Eoin had ever seen—filled the space, along with gentlewomen in delicately embroidered gowns and female laborers wearing linsey-woolsey dresses. Likewise, there were some men in finely tailored silk jackets and others in carefully patched clothing.
The spurts of conversation that floated in Eoin’s direction ranged from discussions about bawdy plays to the latest fashions to the war with France to news from the Colonies to an art exhibit and, finally, to visits to the Royal Menagerie.
The old Foxglen would have passionately detested this place. That Eoin knew immediately. It was more difficult to ascertain his own opinion.
But as he sat on a chair and watched Hannah bustling about, he realized that he felt something he had not experienced in a long time. Simple enjoyment. He liked sitting here, surrounded by enthusiastic folks whose conversation was bound by no restrictions.
And in the center of that brilliant chaos was Hannah. Excitement and exertion pinkened her cheeks, and when shestopped to speak with her customers, her green eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. Every now and then, he could catch snippets of her conversation—and no matter the topic, she always chatted away confidently. She was an intelligent one, Miss Hannah Wick.
And he liked that about her. He liked everything about her. Perhaps too much.
She had proposed to become his mistress only as a ruse. But their relationship had begun to feel more and more real… at least to Eoin.
For a long time, he’d carried a constant ache in his chest, but he hadn’t noticed it until recently. And that was only because the yawning emptiness shrank when he was with Hannah. When she’d attempted to buoy his spirits in the carriage yesterday, he’d felt a comfort that was alien to him.
“Eoin, darling,” Hannah called out as if she’d heard his thoughts, “how are you liking the brew?”
Eoin’s heart flipped. Although he’d asked Hannah to use his given name, he hadn’t expected her to use it publicly, especially coupled withdarling.
Before he could recover, she leaned over him, her breasts grazing his back as she placed another cup of coffee on the low table in front of him. “You must try this one. It’s one of Sophia’s latest creations. Since it contains imported spices, we generally charge extra but consider it a little love token from me.”
Hannah was playing a role. The flirty words. Her semi-embrace. Even the gift of the delicious-smelling concoction. They were all carefully crafted lies.
But Eoin was falling for each gesture.
