He shook his head, all traces of that darkness in his expression replaced with amused light. “They’re that good? Better thanRomeo and Juliet?”
She stared him dead in the eyes, perfectly serious. “Better thanHamlet.”
“Now I know you’re mad.Hamletcannot come second to a pastry. Do you also prefer sticks to flowers?”
“Of course. Though the stick burns better in the fire.”
“Madness!” He was smiling. “To win your heart, a man mustn’t use flowers or poetry, but a tart?”
She enjoyed his teasing. The lack of scolding in his tone was full of sincere attention. Since it was unlikely she’d ever see him after tonight, she didn’t see the harm in indulging in a bit of amusement at his expense.
“Don’t think me so easily caught,sir. It would take at least ten.”
“Ten tarts.” His smile was all teeth. “Is that all?”
She was glad when the moon drifted behind a passing cloud, else the man would witness her grinning like a fool. “Perhaps a pair of satin slippers. I do have an inclination for footwear.”
He laughed. “To use as weapons, I’ve no doubt.”
He was too easy to talk to. She hadn’t meant to offer so much, but he’d looked sad talking about missing his sister. Truthfully, she struggled conversing with most people. The way her brainworked, having to explain herself was tedious. But the duke had more than kept pace.
He spoke genuinely, honestly. She believed him when he’d said he wasn’t a hero. Most men would bluster and lash out at her lack of gratitude, whereas Renard had laughed it off.
What a strange man. Tall and fair-haired, the man would put the great statues to shame. A gentleman, no less, and yet, he walked the streets at night, as if hunting for a fight.
“Admiring my good looks?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He stumbled and righted himself, muttering something that sounded like, “Unexpected.”
She grinned... then frowned. They were deep in the rookery now, a stone’s throw from the flat she shared with her mother.
The modest dwellings gave way to mostly standing four-walled shacks. Camille felt a module of shame—and then let it go.
She wasn’t interested in pity or charity. Though the pay at the Prodding Pony was generous, there were still years’ worth of debt to repay; the duke’s inattention harmed them even in death. Until the collectors’ threats were gone, they’d make do. She had plans for whatever was left over, and she’d make it count.
A light shone in the upstairs living space where her mother must have left one of their precious candles to waste. She should go inside and save what wick was left, but she found herself hesitating to leave the night air. Maybe not just the air. Tonight, she hadn’t been the girl who’d ruined her mother’s life, or Madam Clarice’s errand girl.
They stopped at the corner, and Renard nodded to the light. “This is home?” No disgust, no pity.
She could have kissed him for that. The fingernail she pressed into her shoulder was sharp, a reminder. No good wouldcome of letting herself like him. Certainly no good would come of kissing.
“You’re frowning,” he said.
The moon had yet to make its reappearance.
She huffed. “There’s no light. How could you tell?”
“You went quiet.”
“And silence equates to frowning?”
“You frown when you’re thinking.”
She snorted. “I’m always thinking.”
“As I said.”
