She crept closer until she dared no more. She could almost touch him. She leaned in, feet firmly planted on the ground. “Yes, that good. The intricacy of design!” They were much better than her own sketches. She sketched to clear her head. And to hide her notes. The artist of these waistcoats obviously created with his whole soul present. “Are those little frogs?”
“Ribbit.”
She chuckled.
“Would you like to see it closer up?”
“Oh, yes.”
He stripped without talking, first divesting the jacket and then the waistcoat. His shirt was surprisingly plain but of the finest lawn. She could not pay it much mind because he handed over the green waistcoat and—heavens!—what a beauty.
“I like frogs.” His fingers brushed the designs. “Such underrated little things, but quite sleek and beautiful.”
“Most people think them horrid.”
“Most people are stupid.”
She closed her eyes, wanting that voice to wrap round her in darkness. She’d heard fine singing voices, the best England and Europe had to offer, in fact, but none of them compared. Yet, his words were ugly. She flung her eyes open and shoved the waistcoat at him. “You did these.” She gestured to the green, the purple, the black.
“Yes. I stay up every night working my poor fingers to the bone, ruining my eyesight with fine work by candlelight. Or at least I did until the elves came to help. Useful little fellows, elves. Can do in a whole night what used to take me weeks.”
“You designed them,” she countered. His ridiculous tale, distraction he meant it to be, deserved no attention.
He opened his mouth, closed it again. He gathered the other garments she’d scattered about the room and put them back into the wardrobe. Once he’d finished, he turned to her. “What makes you say that?”
“They are absurd, the designs. Not what they appear. The stripes are actually dots, and the frogs are clever collections of flies grouped to look like frogs. The vines on the black one make words! Poetry. Shakespeare.” She shook her head. “They are absurd and unexpected and entirely amazing.”
“Like me?”
Yes. “I’ve no idea if you are amazing. You may very well be, if you’ve designed such delights. But”—she scrunched her face—“if you have, that means you’re an artist. I should have known.” And now that she did know, she also knew she’d find nothing of use in his bedroom, no secrets worth their weight in gold. Artists, as a rule, had no gold and were in constant need of it from others.
“Why should you have known?” He looked up and all around him, turning in a quick circle. “Is there a sign above my head?”
“Once I realized I was quite attracted to you, there might as well have been.”
“Attracted? Well, I’m not surprised. Iamirresistible. But you must not let hope live in that dainty little chest of yours. I’m not prone to making love to children.”
“I am five and twenty! I’m not a child.” And was damned tired of being treated like one by everyone in her life.
“You’re tiny as one. I could fit you in my pocket.”
She stomped across the room back to the wardrobe, swung the door open, and yanked out a waistcoat. “Do you mean this immaculately embroidered pocket? Hm,artist?” She pushed it toward his face.
“Don’t shove my own clothing at me, Pocket Princess.” He grabbed the garment.
But she wasn’t through making her point. She leaned over and opened a drawer where, she hoped, his cravats would be neatly folded away. It didn’t budge. She yanked again, and the entire wardrobe wobbled.
“Um, Princess,” Mr. Blake said.
She yanked again, harder, this time releasing the drawer.
“Hell!” Mr. Blake slammed into her just as the wardrobe crashed to the floor beside them.
Maggie’s heart raced. She’d almost been crushed!
“Are you unharmed?”
Maggie looked up and forgot the fear of death by wardrobe. His blue eyes, so close to her own stared at her with genuine concern. His forearms bracketed her head, and the hard length of his body pressed her to the floor. Who knew a fop could possess such chiseled strength. If the rest of him was as chiseled as that jaw of his, the unclothed Greek statues in her mother’s drawing room would be envious.
