Josie bit her lip and tried to force her thoughts away from the tantalizing topic of kissing Westman.
“What do you say we go upstairs?” Westman said then, and Josie almost jumped out of her skin. She snapped her gaze to his face, but he was still lounging with eyes closed on the couch.
How could he make an offer like that and still look so unperturbed?
She cleared her throat, not trusting her voice. “You want to go upstairs?”
He nodded. “It seems the next logical step. There’s nothing we can use down here.”
Josie considered that statement carefully. She’d heard of men with strange perversions. “What do you want to use upstairs?” she said cautiously.
“What do I—?” Westman gave her a long look. “What I meant, Miss Hale, was that we might go upstairs, to the attic, and search through its contents. It’s the next most logical place to search.”
Josie stood, mostly to have something to do. “I see. Yes, you should have said so before. Let’s go.” Westman stood and motioned to the door. She preceded him, but from behind her, she heard him murmur, “What did you think I meant?”
“Nothing.” Josie walked faster. “Exactly what you said.”
“No, you didn’t. You had a look on your face, like a doe who’s just heard the snap of the hunter’s foot on a nearby branch.”
“What a strange analogy.”
“Appropriate, I thought.”
“Not really.” She walked faster, until Westman grabbed her elbow and yanked her back. He motioned her toward the stairs she’d just passed, and with a sheepish look, she started up them. There was absolutely no way she was going to reveal to Westman what she had really been thinking. Why give the man another opportunity to tell her he didn’t want her?
They continued up the stairs in silence, but Josie was all too conscious that Westman was behind her. Was he laughing at her behind her back? Was he thinking she was the last woman he’d take to his bed?
Was he—oh, yes, please God—was he watching her bottom sway as she climbed?
She peeked back at him, but—drat!—he was looking over the banister at something below. Of course, he was. Why would he pay any attention to her?
Finally, they reached the stairs to the attic, and this time Westman took the lead. He carried a small lamp, shining light into the stuffy, uppermost room. Josie followed him. Obviously, she had far less willpower than he because she was unable to keep her eyes from his lovely rear view. He may not want her, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t look at him.
The attic was not exactly the kind of place that would further her romantic notions either. It was dusty and cobwebbed from disuse and held the faint smell of dead roses she associated with her great-aunt Una. There was a small bed and a mirror in one corner, probably a servant’s at one time, and quite a few framed paintings stacked against the walls. Josie caught her reflection in the mirror and winced. She looked a fright. Her hair was in wild disarray, her dress was wrinkled and torn, and she had a smudge of dirt on her nose.
She tried to wipe the spot off as she observed the stacks of furnishings—chairs, side tables, lamps, and decorative pieces—placed here and there. They were older pieces, nothing that might be considered fashionable now, but they were in good taste. Along with the furnishings were dozens of crates, stacked one on top of the other. The crates were generally unlabeled, and Josie foresaw hours of work ahead of her and Westman.
She glanced at him and knew he saw it too. Was he annoyed at the prospect of spending so much time with her or only annoyed at the large number of crates to sort through? Surely, he had better ways to spend his evenings than with a rumpled girl and a stack of crates.
Josie only wished she did.
But if spending the next few nights alone with her in a cluttered attic, going through crates bothered Westman, he didn’t show it. Without hesitating, he went to one of the crates, pulled it forward and searched for a crowbar to use in opening it. There was one against the far wall, next to a crate that had once been opened and never resealed, and Westman took the tool in hand and heaved the lid off his chosen crate.
Straw spilled out, and out of courtesy, Josie waited for him to set the crowbar down before she began to dig through the straw. It was full of carefully packed porcelain figures—what might have once been a little girl’s collection of shepherdesses and dairymaids. Josie brushed the straw from her skirts, sighed, and watched as Westman opened a crate of old linens next.
She watched him sort through the sheets, opening them and shaking them out. She thought about helping, but her mind was preoccupied. Had Westman guessed what she’d been thinking in the library? And why did it bother her so much to think that he had? After all, he was the one who’d seduced the map away from her last night, and he was the one who’d kissed her yesterday in Seven Dials. If he didn’t want her to think of him as a lover, then why did he encourage her?
And—drat! a thousand times drat!—why didn’t he want her for a lover? What was wrong with her? She watched him shake out another sheet, and she couldn’t stand it anymore. “Why don’t you want me?” she said finally, much more forcefully than she’d intended.
“Huh?” Westman stopped shaking the sheet and gave her an uncomprehending look.
“I said”—she rose and brushed the dust and packing straw from her skirts—“why don’t you want me? You can tell me, you know. It won’t hurt my feelings.”
“Tell you what?” Westman still held the sheet, raising it almost as a shield.
“Is it my hair?” she asked, fingering the cropped locks. “I know men tend to favor long hair, but it just gets in my way. Is it my hair? If it is, just tell me.”
He stared at her, his eyes flicking to her hair, and then back to her face.
