Will looked down. “What’s wrong with them?”
“They’re too nice. You need to scuff them up.”
John gave a helpless shrug in response to Will’s incredulousness.
“My valet will have my hide,” he grumbled, but then set about scuffing up his shoes. “There. Thathasto be enough.”
“It is. But you can’t wear that.” She pointed to his top hat. “It screams toff.”
“Fine,” he grumbled as he took it off and handed it to John.
“Just one last thing.”
Will let out a resigned sigh. “Do what you must.”
She reached out and moved her fingers through his perfectly styled hair, mussing the silky strands a little. The rich, woody scent of his pomade tickled her nose. He went quiet as his dark eyes remained on her face, watching her with an intense gaze she couldn’t quite meet.
Phoebe wasn’t used to commanding the attention of men—both because she didn’t want it and they didn’t seem much interested in bestowing it. Yet Will always kept his focus solely on her whenever they were together, and she rather enjoyed it.
“There,” she said with a slight rasp as she pulled her hand away.
Will straightened and a lock of hair fell rakishly across his brow. “How do I look now?”
Phoebe’s breath caught. Like a rogue. Like the kind of man you wouldn’t mind meeting in a dark corner. And so much like who he might have been, had the dukedom not fallen to him.
“Very… ordinary,” she lied.
“Excellent,” he said with a wicked little smile that made her knees wobble. “I’ve always wanted to be ordinary.” Then he swept his arm toward the music hall. “Lead the way, Atkinson.”
Ten
Will’s lips quirked as Phoebe shoved her hands in her pockets and loped toward the music hall. Though technically hehadseen her in trousers before, that was ages ago and hadn’t made much of an impression on him at the time given how frequently it occurred.
Butthis… this was an entirely different experience. For example, Will certainly didn’t remember ever noticing the way the cut of the trousers emphasized the appealing shape of Phoebe’s backside. He tore his gaze away before anyone caught him staring. As they approached the entrance, Phoebe turned back to give him a jaunty wink that he returned with a frown.
Christ, this would never work. How could anyone look at her and not immediately see those full lips or the curves barely hidden beneath her jacket? But, miraculously, as they made their way through the bustling music hall, no one gave her a second glance. Phoebe had been right. People only saw what they expected to see.
Will had never been to this particular establishment but it reminded him of the places he had visited in the Marais during a trip to Paris with his brother and their late friend Ned years ago. It was crowded and dimly lit aside from the small stage backed by acrimson velvet curtain that had clearly seen better days. The accordion player’s fingers danced wildly over the keys, moving faster and faster, while the ragtag audience let out a round of cheers. The floor was sticky and the air was thick with the scent of sweat, stale beer, and too sweet perfume. It was the scent of excitement. Of possibility. Will closed his eyes and for a brief moment he was back in the Marais, his arm slung around a stranger and his throat hoarse from butchering Gallic drinking songs. He wasn’t a duke then, with the weight of a dozen estates bearing down on him, but just another young man who had come to Paris to get drunk, flirt with women in his terrible French, and look at the occasional piece of art. God, it had felt good.
A swift tap on his shoulder interrupted this little reverie and he opened his eyes.
“Let’s talk to the barman,” Phoebe said by his ear.
Will nodded, but instead of turning away he was compelled to lean closer, as if someone were tugging on an invisible string, until the lapel of his coat brushed against her arm. Phoebe’s lips parted in surprise, her gaze open and inquiring. Will should have drawn back, blamed the movement on someone from the crowd around them, but all he could do was stare into her wide hazel eyes. His fingers tingled with the urge to reach out and wrap around her waist and draw her even closer. To brush the strands of hair that had escaped from under her cap and nuzzle the shell of her ear, but that would most certainly draw attention. Phoebe drew in a breath and began to say something just as someone did shove into Will. Hard. He was forced to step back to keep his balance just as Phoebe grabbed his sleeve.
“Sorry, mate,” said the incredibly drunk and quite large man that had bumped into him. He then gestured to the pint in hishand, as if that explained it, and managed to slosh some of it onto Will’s shoes before toddling off.
“Stop staring at him like he insulted your honor and slapped you with his glove,” Phoebe said. “You’re ruining your disguise.”
“I wasn’t.” Will turned to her. “And no one does that anymore.”
“If anything, you should have thrown a punch,” she teased. “That’s how disagreements are settled outside Mayfair.”
Will suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. She really did see him as completely inane. “A splendid idea,” he said dryly. “But I assume you don’t want to get thrown out of here before we even find this woman.”
“Fair point.”
“Come on,” he said. “I could use a drink.” Or several.
