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Authors: Grace Burrowes
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though I’ve yet to truly appreciate them.”
“One being that you can tease and flirt and carry on like a strumpet all night?”
The peevishness was gone, but Hazlit hardly liked himself for the condescension that had taken its place.
“If I’m flirting and teasing, then the gentlemen are also flirting and teasing, and yet you hardly compare them to streetwalkers. They are being gallant, but you accuse me of being immoral. Hardly fair, Mr. Hazlit.”
“They do not have their hair swinging around their backsides like some dollymop working the docks.”
She went still, as if he’d slapped her, and Hazlit had to wonder if she wouldn’t be justified in shooting him. “That is a gun you have in your purse?”
“A knife.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” He switched seats and settled directly beside her on the forward-facing seat. “Go ahead, try to stab me.”
“You deserve to be deflated, but why attempt a violent felony?”
“So I can show you why you ought not to carry such a thing.”
“But my papa…”
“Is a duke, who hasn’t been in a hand-to-hand brawl since his duchess got her mitts on him three decades ago. Pull the knife.”
“But what if I hurt you?”
“I want you to try to hurt me, try your absolute—”
She got the thing free of her purse, at least, but he had her wrist pinned up against the squabs, his body forcing hers back against the seat so snugly he could feel her breathing.
“I take your point,” she said, her breath fanning past his ear.
He wasn’t finished. He eased the pressure on her wrist just a hair, and while she perhaps thought the demonstration over, he brought the knifepoint up right under her chin, making further speech for her perilous.
“The gun,” he said, “will at least make a hell of a noise and bring help. If both barrels are spent, it’s harmless. The knife can be turned on you over and over again, and if you don’t bleed to death, then infection will likely carry you off eventually.”
“I understand, Mr. Hazlit.”
He stayed for a moment, his weight still pressing into hers, lowering the knife only slowly. In the darkness, he couldn’t tell if she’d gone pale, but she wasn’t crying. Her breathing told him that.
And the scent of her, God in heaven the scent. Cinnamon and mille fleurs, maybe. A little lilac, some hyacinth, even a touch of rose, a whisper of jasmine, and it all twined through a man’s senses and made him want to linger near, teasing fragrance from fragrance until he was drunk on an olfactory catalogue of sweetness.
She said nothing. Hazlit felt her hands on his chest, not pushing, but maybe ready to push.
Prey went still like this sometimes when a predator spotted them. It was an attempt to become invisible, a futile attempt. He shifted to sit beside her, fished around for a few moments, then reached in the dark for her hand.
“Get rid of it,” he said, settling the hilt of the knife in her palm. “I’ll get you a lady’s version of a pocket pistol and teach you how to use it, unless you’d rather approach one of your brothers to see to it.”
“My brothers?”
“St. Just would be best suited to the task.” Devlin St. Just was a decorated cavalry officer, one who’d been awarded an earldom for his exploits in the Peninsular War.
Or for being a duke’s firstborn bastard.
“He’s gone back North, where he’s likely to stay,” Miss Windham said. “If you can spare the time, I will take my instruction from you. But I hardly think your purpose in meeting me tonight was to accost me with a knife.”
“Of course not. We’re to begin your investigation, assuming you still haven’t located this reticule?”
“I have not.” She sounded tight-lipped about it, though her reply brought Hazlit an odd sense of relief.
“Then let’s begin with the obvious. When did you last see it?”
She turned her head to regard him by the light of the occasional porch lamp.
“I could write much of this down for you.
“One being that you can tease and flirt and carry on like a strumpet all night?”
The peevishness was gone, but Hazlit hardly liked himself for the condescension that had taken its place.
“If I’m flirting and teasing, then the gentlemen are also flirting and teasing, and yet you hardly compare them to streetwalkers. They are being gallant, but you accuse me of being immoral. Hardly fair, Mr. Hazlit.”
“They do not have their hair swinging around their backsides like some dollymop working the docks.”
She went still, as if he’d slapped her, and Hazlit had to wonder if she wouldn’t be justified in shooting him. “That is a gun you have in your purse?”
“A knife.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” He switched seats and settled directly beside her on the forward-facing seat. “Go ahead, try to stab me.”
“You deserve to be deflated, but why attempt a violent felony?”
“So I can show you why you ought not to carry such a thing.”
“But my papa…”
“Is a duke, who hasn’t been in a hand-to-hand brawl since his duchess got her mitts on him three decades ago. Pull the knife.”
“But what if I hurt you?”
“I want you to try to hurt me, try your absolute—”
She got the thing free of her purse, at least, but he had her wrist pinned up against the squabs, his body forcing hers back against the seat so snugly he could feel her breathing.
“I take your point,” she said, her breath fanning past his ear.
He wasn’t finished. He eased the pressure on her wrist just a hair, and while she perhaps thought the demonstration over, he brought the knifepoint up right under her chin, making further speech for her perilous.
“The gun,” he said, “will at least make a hell of a noise and bring help. If both barrels are spent, it’s harmless. The knife can be turned on you over and over again, and if you don’t bleed to death, then infection will likely carry you off eventually.”
“I understand, Mr. Hazlit.”
He stayed for a moment, his weight still pressing into hers, lowering the knife only slowly. In the darkness, he couldn’t tell if she’d gone pale, but she wasn’t crying. Her breathing told him that.
And the scent of her, God in heaven the scent. Cinnamon and mille fleurs, maybe. A little lilac, some hyacinth, even a touch of rose, a whisper of jasmine, and it all twined through a man’s senses and made him want to linger near, teasing fragrance from fragrance until he was drunk on an olfactory catalogue of sweetness.
She said nothing. Hazlit felt her hands on his chest, not pushing, but maybe ready to push.
Prey went still like this sometimes when a predator spotted them. It was an attempt to become invisible, a futile attempt. He shifted to sit beside her, fished around for a few moments, then reached in the dark for her hand.
“Get rid of it,” he said, settling the hilt of the knife in her palm. “I’ll get you a lady’s version of a pocket pistol and teach you how to use it, unless you’d rather approach one of your brothers to see to it.”
“My brothers?”
“St. Just would be best suited to the task.” Devlin St. Just was a decorated cavalry officer, one who’d been awarded an earldom for his exploits in the Peninsular War.
Or for being a duke’s firstborn bastard.
“He’s gone back North, where he’s likely to stay,” Miss Windham said. “If you can spare the time, I will take my instruction from you. But I hardly think your purpose in meeting me tonight was to accost me with a knife.”
“Of course not. We’re to begin your investigation, assuming you still haven’t located this reticule?”
“I have not.” She sounded tight-lipped about it, though her reply brought Hazlit an odd sense of relief.
“Then let’s begin with the obvious. When did you last see it?”
She turned her head to regard him by the light of the occasional porch lamp.
“I could write much of this down for you.
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