Read Online Midnight Pleasures With a Scoundrel by Lorraine Heath - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lorraine Heath
Tags: Historical
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her, he might decide to take matters into his own hands. Besides, Swindler suddenly wanted to spend time with her, very much.
“Right then,” Sir David said, as though he’d read all the thoughts crossing Swindler’s mind. “Keep an eye on her, and for God’s sake keep her away from Rockberry.”
“Yes, sir.”
Late in the afternoon Swindler again borrowed Claybourne’s carriage, and the lady was again dressed in pink. He wondered if years from now he would remember her as the lady in pink, for he had no doubt that in his dotage when he reminisced about his most fascinating cases, she would come to mind. Not that he found much to recommend the case itself for further reflection, but the lady was another matter.
She was a bit of freshness in his life, a life that had become stale by all he’d witnessed. He considered asking her about her late night surveillance of Rockberry, had even considered driving by Dodger’s to gauge her reaction, but he was so damned tired of Rockberry being even a hint of a conversation. He selfishly wanted today for himself, for Eleanor. He wanted to give the impression he was a suitor—and a suitor wouldn’t talk of another man. Even though he knew he could never be a true suitor to her, he could have this little bit of time with her.
He loved watching the way she enjoyed the gardens as the carriage rolled through one after another. She laughed when he didn’t know the names of the flowers. She pointed out her favorites, but even if she hadn’t, he would have known. Pinks and lavenders. Pale colors. Softness. Nothing bright. Nothing harsh.
Then she surprised him by asking, “Will you take me through the part of London where you grew up?”
She might as well have thrown a bucket of cold water on him. He’d been considering seducing her, but the filth that had been his life as a boy would make any woman squirm with distaste at the thought of his hands touching her.
“It’s not nearly as beautiful as the gardens,” he said, hoping to dissuade her from pursuing that path.
“But it would tell me a bit more about your life.”
He knew he should have been flattered that she had an interest in his past, might have an interest in him. While he knew he could never leave it behind completely, that it was woven into the fabric of his character, he had no desire for her to actually see the specifics. “Allow me to paint a picture: it was dirty, smelly, and crowded.”
“I’ve noticed that much of London is dirty, smelly, and crowded.”
“Not like the rookeries. It is absent of hope. It is not a place that allows in dreams. It’s drearily dismal.”
She looked at him as though he’d opened up his chest and shown her his heart. “You’re ashamed of your past.”
“I’m disgusted by it, yes.”
Angry at her and his words, he averted his gaze. How had she managed to take control of the conversation and direct it away from where it belonged—with him learning about her?
He was aware of her small hand covering the tight fist balled on his thigh. She squeezed gently. “You rose above your origins, Mr. Swindler. That’s to be admired. While I’ve heard tales of the rookeries, without actually seeing them, I can’t fully appreciate them.”
He twisted his head around to look at her, knowing his eyes and voice held a hard, implacable determination. “That’s my point, Miss Watkins. There is nothing about them to appreciate.”
He wondered what she was thinking as she studied his face, wondered exactly what it revealed. The harshness of the life he’d led? How, as he’d grown older, as he became more knowledgeable in the way of things, he came to abhor the life he’d lived? How the first time he’d felt any pride was when he led a constable to a boy who’d pilfered a money purse in order that the innocent boy who’d been arrested for the offense would be set free? How a gang of other boys had beaten him up for squealing on their mate—and so he’d learned to
“Right then,” Sir David said, as though he’d read all the thoughts crossing Swindler’s mind. “Keep an eye on her, and for God’s sake keep her away from Rockberry.”
“Yes, sir.”
Late in the afternoon Swindler again borrowed Claybourne’s carriage, and the lady was again dressed in pink. He wondered if years from now he would remember her as the lady in pink, for he had no doubt that in his dotage when he reminisced about his most fascinating cases, she would come to mind. Not that he found much to recommend the case itself for further reflection, but the lady was another matter.
She was a bit of freshness in his life, a life that had become stale by all he’d witnessed. He considered asking her about her late night surveillance of Rockberry, had even considered driving by Dodger’s to gauge her reaction, but he was so damned tired of Rockberry being even a hint of a conversation. He selfishly wanted today for himself, for Eleanor. He wanted to give the impression he was a suitor—and a suitor wouldn’t talk of another man. Even though he knew he could never be a true suitor to her, he could have this little bit of time with her.
He loved watching the way she enjoyed the gardens as the carriage rolled through one after another. She laughed when he didn’t know the names of the flowers. She pointed out her favorites, but even if she hadn’t, he would have known. Pinks and lavenders. Pale colors. Softness. Nothing bright. Nothing harsh.
Then she surprised him by asking, “Will you take me through the part of London where you grew up?”
She might as well have thrown a bucket of cold water on him. He’d been considering seducing her, but the filth that had been his life as a boy would make any woman squirm with distaste at the thought of his hands touching her.
“It’s not nearly as beautiful as the gardens,” he said, hoping to dissuade her from pursuing that path.
“But it would tell me a bit more about your life.”
He knew he should have been flattered that she had an interest in his past, might have an interest in him. While he knew he could never leave it behind completely, that it was woven into the fabric of his character, he had no desire for her to actually see the specifics. “Allow me to paint a picture: it was dirty, smelly, and crowded.”
“I’ve noticed that much of London is dirty, smelly, and crowded.”
“Not like the rookeries. It is absent of hope. It is not a place that allows in dreams. It’s drearily dismal.”
She looked at him as though he’d opened up his chest and shown her his heart. “You’re ashamed of your past.”
“I’m disgusted by it, yes.”
Angry at her and his words, he averted his gaze. How had she managed to take control of the conversation and direct it away from where it belonged—with him learning about her?
He was aware of her small hand covering the tight fist balled on his thigh. She squeezed gently. “You rose above your origins, Mr. Swindler. That’s to be admired. While I’ve heard tales of the rookeries, without actually seeing them, I can’t fully appreciate them.”
He twisted his head around to look at her, knowing his eyes and voice held a hard, implacable determination. “That’s my point, Miss Watkins. There is nothing about them to appreciate.”
He wondered what she was thinking as she studied his face, wondered exactly what it revealed. The harshness of the life he’d led? How, as he’d grown older, as he became more knowledgeable in the way of things, he came to abhor the life he’d lived? How the first time he’d felt any pride was when he led a constable to a boy who’d pilfered a money purse in order that the innocent boy who’d been arrested for the offense would be set free? How a gang of other boys had beaten him up for squealing on their mate—and so he’d learned to
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