“And do any of the footmen know it?” When his cheek twitched but he offered no answer, she continued, “No, then. Does your valet know it?”
“No,” he ground out. “But my secretary, Mr. Poppins does. He will not tell you, however.”
“Well, then, I could not ask around and find out, could I? Now, the question that really matters, Mr. Trent, is whether you wish to know my true given name.”
“What is it?” he snapped.
“Promise you'll reciprocate.”
“My name is Rowan. Rowan Trent.”
He’d answered so quickly, as if he wanted her name as much as he wanted that inn.
It made her feel floaty again.
And what a terribly delightful name. It quite fit him. It would sound good on the tongue, feel good parting the lips.Rowan. Yes.
“I’m Isabella.” She spoke without thinking, her voice a bit hazy and dreamy.
“Huh.”
The wind whistled to a stop again, dumping her back to earth. “Do you find my name questionable?”
“Not at all. In fact, I find it exponentially more appropriate. Sarah is too plain a moniker for a sidhe like you.”
They stared at one another—Rowan and Isabella. She had to lift her chin to look into his face, and she could not but think of that moment earlier in the coach, when she’d been thrown against him and their bodies had met and hers had tried to melt, to learn the feel of him better, and for a moment, she’d thought he might melt, too. He’d leaned closer like he had a new goal he intended to achieve with all possible speed and dexterity.
She might have learned if her lips had become his goal or not if she’d remained pressed so close to him. But she’d run, bouncing backward and reminding herself of her own goal—pretend, gain entry to the Hestia, steal the letter, save Samuel.
Now, in the alley behind the Hestia, she felt drawn to him once more, so much so a foot slipped out of her control and shifted his way. At the same time, he moved toward her, mirror movements that brushed his boots against her skirts. His green eyes fluttered, found a new home just above her chin. He might kiss her… if she let him.
She stumbled backward, rubbing her palms up and down her arms. He closed his eyes, shook his head. Then he opened the back door and held out an arm to her. “You’ve earned your entry.”
Yes, she had, and she should not dawdle or allow herself to become distracted. She swept for the door, and he followed.
She stopped just inside. “You’re off to your apartments now?”
“I thought I’d help you retrieve your belongings.”
“I need no help.”
“Still. I’d rather escort you.”
“Scoundrel!”
“Perhaps I am. But you are clearly a thief.”
“A thief! You have very high opinions of me.”
“I know little of you. What else am I to think?”
He would not leave her alone this night. She stepped back outside. “I should go home. It’s much too late. My family will worry.”
“I’ll escort you.”
“No!” Had there ever been a more bothersome man than this one?
“It is getting late, therefore it is getting dangerous. I will escort you.”
