Page 22 of To Dare the Devil

“Well, materials are missing. I need to discover where from and who is responsible, and I intend to do so.”

“You will not confront a lot of blasted workmen and accuse them of stealing!” Max retorted, going hot and cold at the idea.

“Will not?” she exclaimed, and Max knew at once he had made an error of judgement.

He backtracked wildly.

“I beg your pardon, Miss de Beauvoir. I do not mean to give you instruction on how to do your job, but I believe you might be acting somewhat rashly,” he tried, which was as diplomatic as he could manage with his pulse speeding up as it was.

She rolled her eyes at him in a manner that suggested she was used to dealing with intractable men. “I was not suggesting that I accuse them to their faces. I’m not a complete idiot, my lord, no matter what you may think.”

“I don’t think I ever suggested anything of the kind. I only worry that a female, alone on a building site, might put herself in a precarious situation if she discovers there are indeed men guilty of stealing. That would make them criminals, and likely to be dangerous. Do you think it would please them if you uncovered their little scheme?”

“No,” she allowed. “I do not. But as I mentioned, am not a fool. I was not considering going unchaperoned and neither was I was intending to crash about like a bull in a china shop, issuing accusations. That might be the male method of getting things done, but I was thinking of something a tad subtler.”

Her eyebrows had a most intriguing slant to them, which somehow emphasised the slightly feline cast to her eyes. After delivering her little set down, one eyebrow quirked, daring him to issue another challenge. Sadly, Max had never resisted a dare in his life. He assured himself this was not behaving badly, however, for he was only doing it to keep her safe, therefore his intentions were entirely honourable.

“I can be subtle,” he said, taking a step closer to her. “You could introduce me and imply that I’m a difficult neighbour, one who is anxious about having a school for disreputable elements on his doorstep. It is on my doorstep, after all.”

She frowned at that, looking at him with an expression of such puzzlement he could not help but smile. Miss de Beauvoir was quite enchanting, and that the poor girl did not know what to make of him only made him adore her all the more. He wanted quite desperately for her to like him, though he knew it was a forlorn hope. Still, a fellow ought to have goals.

“You would let people think badly of you, just so you can accompany me?” she asked sceptically.

Max laughed. “My dear young woman, most people do think badly of me, and with good reason. I thought we’d already covered this?”

“I am not your dear,” she said, bristling a little, but then her expression softened a degree. “But if you will present yourself in such an unflattering light, I will accept your chaperonage. I admit I am somewhat anxious, for I have no desire to make unfounded allegations or get anyone into trouble. Come along, then. If we leave now, we should arrive in time for this morning’s delivery.”

She was very managing, he noted, and realised he might rather enjoy being managed by such a female. Max moved towards the study door and opened it for her. “I am at your disposal, and you are entirely fair-minded, Miss de Beauvoir. That speaks well of you and gives me a glimmer of hope that you might not despise me for all eternity,” he said, employing what he knew was his most charming smile. Predictably, it fell on stony ground.

“I do not despise you, my lord,” she replied, her tone conciliatory. “I simply do not think of you at all.”

She sent him a dazzling smile.

“Ouch!” Max spluttered, holding her gaze. He leaned in then, lowering his voice. “And yet I do not think that entirely true. Are you prone to fibbing, Miss de Beauvoir?”

“I am not, and you may think what you like!” she said, looking pink and marvellously flustered before putting up her chin and stalking past him out the door.

But Max had seen that tell-tale blush again, and he didn’t believe her.

27th May 1842, Lower Square, Isleworth, London.

The journey to the school was a short but uncomfortable ride for Kathleen. Lord Vane had insisted one of his maids travel with them for propriety, which was thoughtful of him, but she still spent the entire ride sat upon thorns. She could feel his gaze upon her, though whenever she glanced up she found him staring out of the window, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Well, she knew that was far from the truth. The wretch looked far too pleased with himself. He hadn’t believed her when she’d denied ever thinking about him. That much was obvious. Drat the man. Yet it wasn’t as though she was thinking romantic thoughts. It was only that the man was such a puzzle, and he was her employer, so it was only natural that he was on her mind a good deal. She fidgeted uncomfortably as a little voice suggested she was being deliberately obtuse. Oh, it wasn’t fair. It was diabolical of him to be so kind and thoughtful. If only he weren’t so handsome and… and male, things would be a good deal simpler. It was extremely hard to disregard the fact of all that rampant masculinity, however, when it was sitting directly in front of you.

He'd crossed his arms, and the fabric pulled tight over his biceps and broad shoulders, highlighting the physic of an active man. His long legs stretched out between the seats of the carriage, crossed at the ankles, and his breeches hugged muscular thighs. Annoyingly, it was proving the devil’s own job not to sit and gawk at him. She thought perhaps he had put on weight and bulk since she had tended to his wounds. He’d been beautiful then, but leaner, more boyish. There was nothing the least bit boyish about him now.

The knowledge that she had put her hands on his naked skin, and he didn’t know it was at once disturbing and indecently erotic, stirring disconcerting sensations deep inside her that left her restless and uncomfortable, as though her skin no longer fit her. She could not help but remember how it had felt to touch him, the silk of his body beneath her hands, the little mole beside his left nipple, and that they were a dark pink. There was hair on his chest, a shade of darker gold than that on his head, and it led a trail down his abdomen which was taut and defined. She felt the blush steel up her chest and throat and stared determinedly out of the window. If she caught his gaze now, he’d know she was thinking about him. Thinking lewd thoughts about him. Oh, good Lord!

There was a part of her that felt she ought to confess, for it seemed wrong to have such intimate knowledge of him when he was unaware of the fact, and yet wild horses could not have dragged the words from her. If she confessed, he would guess why she’d said nothing, that he affected her far more than she wished him to know, and there was no point in keep denying the fact. She was too honest not to admit that much. And why ought she deny it? He was a fine specimen of male beauty, and there was no shame in enjoying the view. Though she ought not to dream about him at night—not that she did it on purpose. More than just looking or dreaming was an exercise in stupidity, however, and Kathleen was not stupid. Vane may have changed but he was still an aristocratic male with no use for the likes of her, and she wasn’t about to forget that.

“At last,” she said with relief as the carriage halted in the muddy lane beside the school building site.

Vane simply smiled and climbed down from the carriage, turning to offer her his hand. Kathleen almost refused, not wanting to get that close to him, but that was silly. Still, his touch was unsettling, even through their gloves, and she snatched her hand back as quickly as she could. He made no comment, though he must have noticed, and Kathy hurried across to where she could see the carts trundling down the temporary driveway to the building to be unloaded.

“Who would usually be in charge of unloading?” Vane asked, his long strides keeping pace with hers.

“I don’t know. Perhaps if we don’t make our interest in the delivery obvious, they’ll carry on as usual.”

He nodded, accepting this, and offered her his arm. She frowned at him, and he raised his eyebrows. “You are supposed to be in the business of charming me—dissolute and ramshackle fellow that I am—into accepting this offending building, may I remind you? You do know how to charm a fellow, don’t you Miss de Beauvoir?” he asked, all innocence, the dreadful man. As if she didn’t know he was flirting with her.