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“To drink coffee I need both,” she explained. “Cream and Chelsea buns.”
“That’s your dietary law?”
“One of them.”
“Noted.” He sat up, a nimble motion, swinging his legs off the chaise longue, setting his boots on the floor.
She was the secretary, the spy. She should be noting things about him, not the other way around. Why, then, did she feel a little thrill whenever he seemed curious about her?
“I’ll speak with Olgilvie about the situation,” he said. “No Chelsea buns. A travesty.” He tsked, then smiled a real smile. Clearly, he’d recovered from whatever ailed him.
The air no longer thrummed with tension. The room felt cooler, the musk of old incense and tobacco thicker.
She gave an awkward cough.
He pointed his chin toward the doorway. “Has the human flood ebbed?”
“Not a bit.” She frowned. “That’s why your cup’s half-full. I was jostled.”
He peered down into the cup. “It’s a third full.”
“I was jostled repeatedly.”
“You weren’t burned?”
The concern in his voice stopped the blood in her veins. It was a moment before she shook her head. His eyes narrowed, and he beckoned, the gesture commanding. She went around the table, stopped right in front of him, holding out her fingers for inspection. Her hand—it wasn’t soft or delicate like a lady’s, but he took it gently and held it as though it were precious, examining each finger for injury with the minute focus of a jeweler.
He touched only her palm and her knuckles. But as she looked down at his bent head, her whole body began to tremble.
“You weren’t burned,” he confirmed. “But you were splashed. I detect a residue.” He glanced up, a gleam in his eye. “So. You brought me a third of a cup of lukewarm coffee.”
She snatched her hand away, rubbing at a dark stain with her thumb. “You’re lucky I brought you anything. I’m not your . . .” What had Miss Holroyd said? “I’m not your body servant.”
“No,” he murmured, falling back against the cushion with a smile. “You’re not.”
Her cheeks flamed, and her pulse scattered. What might it be like if she were tasked with attending to his brawny body?
No more whiskers. In the mornings, she’d sit him in a chair, soap him and shave him, and soothe his stinging skin with lavender water. She’d help him into his shirt and waistcoat. She’d wind the silk cravat around his bare throat. In the evenings, she’d reverse the process. The clothing would come off, piece by piece.
Unbidden, her eyes had begun to roam over him, shoulders, arms, torso, thighs, taking his measure.
She met his hot, amused gaze with a start. She’d forgotten he had the power to look back.
She blushed brighter and stared at the wall above his head.
And nearly choked.
A long, gold-framed painting was centered over the chaise longue. Sleeping lovers entwined on a lavishly rumpled bed. Their flesh had the shocking color of life, a warm, swollen, sated quality.
“Do you like it?” De’Ath didn’t turn, didn’t take his eyes from her.
She shrugged, as though her heart wasn’t battering her ribs. “I have no interest in art, I told you.” She paused. “You didn’t listen.”
“I listened. But I don’t believe you.” He leaned forward. “I saw how you stood before those forgeries at Broughton’s. You turned your face toward the painted light as though you could feel it on your skin. And I saw you just now. Your posture changed. Your breathing changed.”
Her breath left her entirely. Her eyes bounced between the picture and his face. “And?”
“Paintings move you. You don’t see smears of color on a window blind. You see beauty. And you respond to it.”
