And each nibble left him harder than he should be, swollen in an area that had no business asserting itself during a coach ride with a strange woman who would pretend to be his wife. A fidgety wife with words shut up tight behind those swollen lips. Fidgeting was… useless. If he needed movement, he took it, a walk from one end of London to the other, a day at Jackson’s or Angelo’s, a tumble at Lady Circe’s. He did not contain movement; hemoved. And he should not find fidgeting so amusing.
He did.
And it seemed to be contagious. He crossed his legs, shifted from one hip to the other, looked out the far window, then flicked at the curtain cover, the near one. He swung his foot at the ankle and—“Would you stop?”
She froze, then in one sharp movement after another she:
Furrowed her brow.
Pursed her lips.
Sliced a knife-sharp gaze his way.
“Stop what?” she asked, her voice low and lethal.
“Fidgeting.”
“Me? Fidgeting? Her gaze dropped tohisshaking foot.
He glued it hard to the floor of the coach. “Yourfidgeting is distracting.”
“From what? Bullying a woman until she bends to your will?”
“Bullying? You will perform one task for me, then I will let you into my hotel. It’s an exchange, a deal.”
She crossed her arms and looked away. “Only once more. I refuse to enter it ever again after I get what I want.”
“And that is?”
“If I am to pretend to be your wife, I suppose we should discuss the details of the charade.”
She wouldn’t tell him what she wanted. That meant it was of a personal or even, perhaps, salacious nature. Interesting. Was she… “Are you a whore?”
“Pardon me?” Her voice rose so high it seemed to lift her body off the seat. “Awhat?”
He shrugged. “You sneak into a hotel dressed as a maid and are in no need of money. I understand that truly well-paid prostitutes are quite comfortable in—”
“I’m not!” Her face blushed berry red, and she hid it behind her palms. She mumbled something behind there he couldn’t quite hear.
“I didn’t truly think you were. You don’t have the looks for it.”
Her arms dropped to her sides. “You are full of compliments, are you not?” She huffed. “I am not surprised. I heard how you described me to the guard you positioned before the back door to keep me out. Tiny little thing. Hair like straw. Blue eyes you can't trust. How are my eyes untrustworthy? I demand to know.”
Because he didn’t know a thing about what was happening behind them. And because they made him feel… odd. Perhaps it was himself he did not trust around her blue eyes. “He needed to be able to identify you. I gave an accurate description. You are of shorter than average stature, your hair is the color of straw, and, well, the bit about the eyes.”
“The bit about the eyes.” She wiggled her jaw side to side. “I didn’t know you meant thecolorof my hair is like straw. I thought you meant the overall appearance of it.”
“Silk.”
“Pardon?”
He cleared his throat. Why had he said that? “The, erm, overall appearance of your hair. Silk.”
“Ah. Well.” She tapped her finger against her thigh. “Strawisa lovely color. I suppose.”
A man yelled something foul on the street, and a horse neighed. Somewhere outside an infant howled, and the afternoon sun beat through the fog to shine, abruptly, across his face.
He sneezed.
