“She used to be the cook . . . I mean . . . I was . . . I’m a companion.”
She had just skirted around telling him something. But he’d worm it out of her eventually. He could be a ruthless wormer. “A companion to whom?”
“Lady LeClere.”
“Poor you.”
“Stop! She’s very nice.”
Franny had crumbs resting on the shelf her pretty breasts made. Could he reach out and brush off the crumbs and get close to those soft scoops of flesh?
No.Keep your hands to yourself. And say something. It’s your turn.
“Nice? Just like the young ladies?”
“Yes! She’s very sweet. Look how she let me come away for Christmas to see Mrs. Tumney and my brother.”
“She let you come alone on a stage coach.”
Franny laughed and tossed her head. “What’s wrong with a stage coach? I hear even dukes are taking them nowadays.”
“Lady LeClere or your brother should have arranged a private post-chaise for you. Or your brother should have come to fetch you himself. And Lady LeClere keeps you in old boots.”
She looked down at her feet. Her face went red. Wait. Had he shamed her? Damn.
She bit her lower lip. “My brother is in school. He’s only thirteen. And my boots are my fault. I use my money for other things.”
“Like pies for people you don’t know?”
Her chagrin fled, and she looked at him. Fierce and bold. “Yes. It’s my money.”
He blew on his coffee. “I’m very careful with my money. If you like, I could show you the way I keep track of my expenditures. Give you some advice on sound investments.”
She said nothing. Then she laughed. “Men always want to fix things. Especially me.”
He felt unaccountably angry. “For good or ill, you’ll find quickly I am notmen, Miss Cranwell. And I have no desire to fix you. I just want you to be properly shod.” He was practically shouting. He forced himself to take a drink of his coffee.
She tilted her head, not daunted in the least. “You really don’t want to fix me? You really don’t want to tell me I’m terribly impractical and I laugh too much and eat too much jam?”
“No.”
“That’s astonishingly lovely. You’re astonishingly lovely.”
His face felt hot. He was notlovely. Whatever he was, it was notlovely. But how . . . lovely that she thought he was.
He blustered to cover the borehole she had driven straight into his chest.
“And if you were my companion, I’d buy you new boots.”
She smirked. “Dukes don’t have companions.”
“No. They have mistresses.”
He studied her reaction to what he had just said. She narrowed her eyes and studied him back.
Then she shook her headno. Just an inch back and forth. Ah, well. There went that possibility. He shouldn’t have held any hope. A woman who used her money for pies for strangers instead of new boots would not be interested in his gifts of jewelry in exchange for putting up with him.
She brushed the breadcrumbs off her bosom herself. “Dukes shouldn’t have mistresses. They should have wives. A wife. A duchess.”
