Quite the articulate nonanswer. Very appropriate for the daughter—and soon-to-be wife—of a delegate who was angling for an even more elevated status. Aaron rocked back on his heels, his boots sinking a bit into the damp, sticky, pitch-like ground.
“Anyway, wait right there. I’ll come down.” She heaved a small sigh. “Without Baron,” she added before slamming the window shut.
Several minutes later, a blur of white dashed around the corner and into the garden. “I can’t believe you actually came.” She stepped into the moonlight, and Aaron bit back a gasp.
Fuck. She was naked.
Well, not naked. She was wearing a night rail. A flimsy white night rail trimmed with silky blue ribbons and delicate lace, to be sure, but still merely a night rail. A very thin, clingy one. He swallowed. Good Lord, even her feet were bare. And her ankles. And a good bit of calf. And now he was imagining parts of her that he really shouldn’t be seeing.
Not that it was easy to redirect his thoughts, given that it was cold and the gown was so snug and—
Oy. No. This woman was a potential employer, and he needed to focus on that, as she’d never—
“What’s the matter?” she asked, her nose wrinkling, as if she didn’t suspect.
“You’re not wearing any clothing.” He pinched the bridge of his nose as he finally averted his gaze. They would be in so much trouble if they were discovered—well,hewould be.
“That’s a bit priggish. Though I suppose you do work in a synagogue.” She glanced down at herself, shimmying her hips from side to side as if she was judging the veracity of his good-sense observation. Apparently completely oblivious to the effect that the action and the fabric gliding over her hips had on him. “Still, it isn’t as if anything of consequence is showing,” she added, solidifying how very different their two realities were.
Aaron gaped at her. “I can see your ankles.” He waved a hand at the delicately bared skin and only that, nothing else. “And elbows. Your bare ankles and elbows.”
“What is the obsession with those?” She strolled over to a stone bench, spreading her skirts and crossing her legs as she sat with practiced, graceful poise, as if she were wearing a real gown.
Except she wasn’t. She was hardly wearing anything at all.
Oy. He should never have come.
“Are you even listening to me?” Isabelle snapped her fingers at him, demanding his focus. “What’s the preoccupation with them about?”
“Preoccupation?” he repeated, his mind still sticking as it worked to sort through the multiple warring—and mostly inappropriate—emotions in his brain and body.
“With ankles and elbows?” She huffed impatiently. “I’d never do any staring if our situations were reversed.”
Truly? He could flash all sorts of inappropriate flesh, and the woman who had definitely run her fingers over his chest on two separate occasions wouldn’t even look at him?
Emboldened, Aaron drew closer, leaning against an ornamental arch covered in tiny-leafed branches and buds. “How many men’s ankles and elbows have you seen?”
“I see more of an outline than you usually get.” She folded her arms, her lower lip pursing in a pout.
“So, none?” His lips twitched as he resisted full-on laughter. “So you have no idea how you’d react.”
He cocked his head, waiting for her to flounce back into the house, but instead she rose, halting mere inches from him, close enough that the lacy edge of her gown brushed his knees. The thought rose in his mind that he could encircle his arms around her waist once again with no effort.
Not that he’d do that again, unless she was falling or needed help. But the possibility . . .
She widened her stance, like a fighter, her hands on her hips.
“Are you going to test me?” she asked, a defiant tilt in her chin, as if she was actually issuing a challenge.
He opened his mouth to say no, but instead he popped out, “Not now.”
Damn it.He should’ve said “never.” Aaron stepped back, digging the heels of his boots into the soft ground. “We have business,” he reminded her. Which was all this was, no matter how disarming he found her when she became piqued like a normal human instead of acting the lofty princess or power-obsessed witch.
“Right,” she said, her tone more serious, as she took a step backward. “I apologize. That was inappropriate. We have a precise arrangement, and we should keep to those boundaries.” She bent down and lifted a parcel that had somehow escaped his notice, as well as a scrap of paper. “Take these.”
“What is this?” He placed the package on the ground and unfolded the note.
“Your costume for the first festival and a list of men for you to study,” she replied as he stared at the scrawled handwriting. He squinted at the six names. Six very prominent, very wealthy, very proper names. Six men who’d suit her very well.
