He was still standing, despite the ache in his right leg, as if ready to either flee or fight. This woman made what social graces he had vanish.
Winter took the settee across from Lady Beckinhall, a low table with the tea things forming a protective barrier between them. He resisted the urge to massage his injured leg, which had begun to throb unpleasantly.
She cast him a challenging glance but made no comment on his choice of seat, instead handing him one of the teacups. “You take no sugar or cream, I believe.”
He nodded, taking the dish of tea. It was hot and strong and of a quality that he didn’t often drink.
“Now, then,” Lady Beckinhall said as she stirred sugar and cream into her own tea. “Although I appreciate your compliment of my home, most compliments you’ll be obliged to offer in a ballroom will be of a more personal nature. Something about the lady’s eyes or hair or dress, for instance, would be most suitable.”
She sipped her tea, watching him over the rim with those damnably perceptive blue eyes.
And he couldn’t seem to control his own gaze. He perused her form as he sought a suitable compliment. Ladies were supposed to sit correctly upright, even he knew that, but Lady Beckinhall seemed somehow to lounge bonelessly on the cushions, shoulders back, feet tucked beneath the settee. The position thrust her bosom into prominence, though he did not think it deliberate on her part. She wore a low-cut gown of deep gold, the cloth tenderly cradling her pale, soft breasts.
I would do violence for one glimpse of your naked breasts. Bleed for one taste of your nipple on my tongue.
No, that was probably not the type of compliment she was looking for.
He cleared his throat. “Your voice, my lady, would make a nightingale jealous.”
She blinked as if surprised. “No one has ever complimented me on my voice before, Mr. Makepeace. Well done.”
Were her cheeks a shade pinker than before?
Her lashes lowered. “A few more comments such as that one, Mr. Makepeace, and you might be flirting with me.”
He felt his brows rise. “You wish me to flirt with you?”
She shrugged. “Most of the conversation between a lady and a gentleman at social events is, in essence, flirtation.”
“Then you must flirt with dozens of gentlemen in a night.”
“Do I detect a tone of reproach, Mr. Makepeace?” she asked softly.
“Not at all.” He ordered his thoughts. “I merely observe that in this you are far more knowledgeable than I.
“More experienced, you mean?”
He merely watched her, for the answer was self-evident. She was more experienced—in flirtation and, no doubt, in other, more basic interactions between women and men. The thought sent an unpleasant rush of some foreign emotion through him.
It took a moment for him to recognize—in some astonishment—that what he felt was jealousy. He lived a life of careful constraint. Ladies—females of any kind—were strictly forbidden by the life choices he’d made. And yet…
And yet there was a part of him—a part he’d never noticed before—that had become impatient with his own rules.
“But you must have flirted before,” she was saying, her voice low and velvety. Welcoming and seductive. Everything that was utterly feminine and alluring.
“No.”
Her delicate brows winged upward. “I know your life is busy, but surely you’ve had a tendre for some young girl before? A friend of your sisters’ perhaps? Or a neighbor?”
He shook his head slowly. “No one.” Did she understand to what he confessed? The beast within yawned and stretched. “I lay myself completely in your hands, Lady Beckinhall. Please. Teach me.”
Chapter Five
The fine lady and the Harlequin became lovers, but such things are very hard to conceal, for the fine lady had suitors both rich and jealous and soon they heard the gossip about the Harlequin. One night when the moon was full, they followed the Harlequin into St. Giles and there set upon him with their steel swords. The Harlequin had but his play sword of wood with which to defend himself. The fight did not last long and when it was done, the suitors left the Harlequin dying in the street…
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
Isabel swallowed at Mr. Makepeace’s low words. His voice sent a shiver across her nerves, making her nipples tighten. Had she heard correctly? Had he just confessed to being a virgin? He was unmarried, true, and by his own admission had never had a sweetheart, but still. Many men resorted to prostitutes—and he lived in an area where they abounded.
But one look at Mr. Makepeace’s proud, stern face disabused her of that notion. Somehow she knew: he would never pay for such an intimate act.
Which meant he was a virgin… and he’d just asked for her tutelage. Surely he didn’t mean—
“Your silence is uncharacteristic, my lady,” he said, still in that deep, precise voice that feathered across her senses. “I hope I have not shocked you with my inexperience… in flirting.”
Flirting. Of course. That was what they were discussing. But she hadn’t imagined the gleam in his dark eyes—or the subtle pause before he’d said “flirting.”
Isabel straightened. She was the experienced one here, after all. “I believe we must work on your introduction, then.”
He merely raised one eyebrow.
She cleared her throat. When had she last been this out of sorts? And over a plain, rigid schoolmaster—a man younger than she! “Flirtation is best begun immediately, even before the introduction. Can you show me your bow?”
He stood slowly and, still holding her eyes, bowed shortly.
She frowned. “No. Something more elegant. Shall I demonstrate?”
“No need.” His gaze was ironic.
This time he backed up a step and pretended to doff an imaginary hat, bowing from the waist, his arms outstretched gracefully.
Isabel’s eyes widened. “If you’ve known all along how to give a proper bow, why haven’t you?”
He straightened slowly and shrugged broad shoulders. “A simple nod of the head gives enough deference without such silly flourishes.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, from now on flourish, please, when in polite company.”
“As you wish,” he said gravely.
“Now.” She had to stop to inhale, for oddly she found herself out of breath. “Now, I would like you to practice kissing the hand of a lady.”
She extended her hand, hoping he wouldn’t notice the faint tremor of her fingers.