trespassing further on your hospitality.”
Stay, he wanted to say. Make yourself at home. Trespass as much as you like.
“Let me find my hat,” he said.
“I’d always thought that particular household arrangement somewhat suspect,” said Stuart, as they approached Sloane Street. “I remember asking our governess whether it would be quite all right if Snow White lived with seven shortish men.”
They were in the midst of an improbable conversation on the private lives and thoughts of fairy tale characters. Only a minute ago, she’d declared that Cinderella would have little in common with Sleeping Beauty, who’d never done a day of hard work—sleeping for a hundred years, how idle and slovenly—but would welcome a chat with Snow White—keeping a house for seven was no mean feat.
She giggled. “And what did your governess say?”
“Fräulein Eisenmueller? She started shouting in German.”
“I don’t blame her. She was deliberately provoked,” said Cinderella, smiling still.
“Yes, poor Fräulein Eisenmueller. I suppose I did provoke her. I didn’t like the way she thought I was corrupt for my age, because I hadn’t led a sheltered life.” He felt himself grinning. “I dare say I knew more of what Snow White could conceivably do with all those shortish men than her spinster’s mind could comprehend.”
He shouldn’t speak of such things to her. It was inappropriate. And he was never inappropriate, beyond that one frustrated instance with Fräulein Eisenmueller. Bertie, who loved all the pleasures of the senses with the abandon of a Georgian roué, had called Stuart a dried-up prig.
“Your poor governess,” she murmured.
“Pity me instead. She made me think I was some sort of irredeemable degenerate until I got to Rugby, whereupon I immediately saw that the majority of boys were degenerates and I was but a year or ten ahead of my time.”
What was it about her that made him disclose—with such alacrity—aspects of himself that others couldn’t pry out of him with a crowbar and the patience of a Count de Monte Cristo?
She shot him a considering look. “What of men? Are they as much degenerates as boys?”
His heart beat faster. “They would like to be,” he said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact. “But most of them lose what audacity and passion they once possessed as lads, so they think the thoughts but dare not do the deeds.”
The distant clacking of hooves reminded him that despite his wishes otherwise, they weren’t out for a pleasant stroll before returning to his house. His time with her was limited.
He stopped and raised his walking stick.
She looked a little surprised, almost as if she too had forgotten the business about the hansom cab. “What of you?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“Have you lost your youthful audacity and passion? Or are you still a degenerate at heart?”
His heart now pounded. He wasn’t so dense that he couldn’t tell when a woman flirted with him. She was flirting with him.
“Would you like to find out?” he said. He wasn’t a flirt. He could not take her question lightly.
Panic flashed in her eyes. The cab drew up next to them. The horse snorted. She let out a breath of relief. “Alas, we’ve no more time,” she said, her voice high-pitched, her words a rush. “Thank you again for everything. Best of luck with your promising young political career. And good night.”
He gazed at her a moment, then inclined his head. “Midnight comes. Godspeed, Cinderella.”
It wasn’t until the carriage pulled away, with her waving from the window, her face wistful, that he realized he’d hoped to be in the cab. With her.
There had always been those who claimed that Stuart had not blood, but cold water running in his veins. He found it a strange assessment, except when it came to matters of the heart and the loins.
He seemed to have been born with a monkish temperament where women were concerned. He found the fate of nations
Stay, he wanted to say. Make yourself at home. Trespass as much as you like.
“Let me find my hat,” he said.
“I’d always thought that particular household arrangement somewhat suspect,” said Stuart, as they approached Sloane Street. “I remember asking our governess whether it would be quite all right if Snow White lived with seven shortish men.”
They were in the midst of an improbable conversation on the private lives and thoughts of fairy tale characters. Only a minute ago, she’d declared that Cinderella would have little in common with Sleeping Beauty, who’d never done a day of hard work—sleeping for a hundred years, how idle and slovenly—but would welcome a chat with Snow White—keeping a house for seven was no mean feat.
She giggled. “And what did your governess say?”
“Fräulein Eisenmueller? She started shouting in German.”
“I don’t blame her. She was deliberately provoked,” said Cinderella, smiling still.
“Yes, poor Fräulein Eisenmueller. I suppose I did provoke her. I didn’t like the way she thought I was corrupt for my age, because I hadn’t led a sheltered life.” He felt himself grinning. “I dare say I knew more of what Snow White could conceivably do with all those shortish men than her spinster’s mind could comprehend.”
He shouldn’t speak of such things to her. It was inappropriate. And he was never inappropriate, beyond that one frustrated instance with Fräulein Eisenmueller. Bertie, who loved all the pleasures of the senses with the abandon of a Georgian roué, had called Stuart a dried-up prig.
“Your poor governess,” she murmured.
“Pity me instead. She made me think I was some sort of irredeemable degenerate until I got to Rugby, whereupon I immediately saw that the majority of boys were degenerates and I was but a year or ten ahead of my time.”
What was it about her that made him disclose—with such alacrity—aspects of himself that others couldn’t pry out of him with a crowbar and the patience of a Count de Monte Cristo?
She shot him a considering look. “What of men? Are they as much degenerates as boys?”
His heart beat faster. “They would like to be,” he said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact. “But most of them lose what audacity and passion they once possessed as lads, so they think the thoughts but dare not do the deeds.”
The distant clacking of hooves reminded him that despite his wishes otherwise, they weren’t out for a pleasant stroll before returning to his house. His time with her was limited.
He stopped and raised his walking stick.
She looked a little surprised, almost as if she too had forgotten the business about the hansom cab. “What of you?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“Have you lost your youthful audacity and passion? Or are you still a degenerate at heart?”
His heart now pounded. He wasn’t so dense that he couldn’t tell when a woman flirted with him. She was flirting with him.
“Would you like to find out?” he said. He wasn’t a flirt. He could not take her question lightly.
Panic flashed in her eyes. The cab drew up next to them. The horse snorted. She let out a breath of relief. “Alas, we’ve no more time,” she said, her voice high-pitched, her words a rush. “Thank you again for everything. Best of luck with your promising young political career. And good night.”
He gazed at her a moment, then inclined his head. “Midnight comes. Godspeed, Cinderella.”
It wasn’t until the carriage pulled away, with her waving from the window, her face wistful, that he realized he’d hoped to be in the cab. With her.
There had always been those who claimed that Stuart had not blood, but cold water running in his veins. He found it a strange assessment, except when it came to matters of the heart and the loins.
He seemed to have been born with a monkish temperament where women were concerned. He found the fate of nations
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