Page 46 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
“This is my sitting room.”
“My reputation—”
“Paulette. You were willing to meet Agruen privately tonight. Do you fear me more?”
She swallowed. Sighed. “Perhaps you are the greater danger, Mr. Gibson.” Her shoulders moved with another sigh and she walked through the open door.
His breath caught, desire rising. Like a fool, he followed her in.
He lit candles until the room was bright enough for him to see the tiniest of beauty marks on one of her cheeks and then crossed the room and opened a window, letting in a fresh breeze that rippled through the flames, the light dancing over her skin. Bink turned away and poured the drinks and tried to quell the yearning to touch her.
She had seated herself in the straight-backed chair the housekeeper usually occupied when she came to discuss accounts. He handed her a glass and sat opposite her.
She twirled the amber liquid. “I love the look of this in a fine crystal glass. It’s so lovely the way it sparkles in the candlelight.”
More stirring within him. The lass had depths. And courage. And intelligence. She was not a shrew, or a hysteric. She had seen through his plan to save her embarrassment and played right along.
“Youare lovely,” he blurted.
Her head jerked up, and a devil within him made him pitch his voice lower. “Could you but see yourself now,youare sparkling in the candlelight.”
She scooted to the edge of her seat, ready to bolt, he’d warrant.
“Stay, lass. I won’t leave this chair.”Unless you wish it.Desire percolated within him and beat in his ears. For too long he’d had only the administrations of his own hand.
He gave himself an imperceptible shake. And it must stay that way. They had matters to discuss. “So the Marquess of Agruen is a thief. I’m not surprised. When he was a mere Mr. Josiah Dickson, I came very close to thrashing the cur in Spain.”
Paulette’s mouth dropped open and her countenance darkened. “I would that you had.”
His pulse drummed harder and an ache came along with the pictures in his head. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to dispel the memory. A woman beaten half to death. Bink beating the man Dickson named as the culprit. Then, weeks later, Dickson on top of a girl barely old enough to bleed.
Bloody liar. Bloody rapist. Bink had been pulled off Dickson, well before getting justice.
“He has a ring that was my mother’s.” Her low voice brought him back from his shadows. “I want it back. And, as you probably heard, there’s a second ring, part of a puzzle—”
“I’ve seen such, with a third part, a heart.”
She blinked and chewed on her lip.
“You would like to know where he got the other part.”
She clenched her hands. “My mother was not a-a whore.”
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “To a man like Agruen, all women are whores. The lady who had that other half of the ring was not likely a whore either.”
She nodded, picked up her glass, and took a drink.
“Let me help you. Will you tell me why it’s so important?”
She set the glass down carefully and lifted her eyes.
Ah. She was crafting a lie.
“It was something of hers, is all, and I have so little. I found it among her things when she died.”
“It seems a small thing. Are there no other jewels?”
“A few trinkets. A few items of clothing. One letter she kept from my father.”
