Shadowdance(109)

Lucien sighed. “My dear girl, it was all I could do not to ban them from the household.” His brilliant eyes twinkled with wry amusement. “Do you honestly believe I’d provide you with the means for your disgusting habit? I thought you placed the order for those things.”

The apple stuck in her throat, aching and burning as she forced it down with a hard swallow. It took her a moment to speak, but when she did, her voice came out rough yet weak. “You did not send gifts to my rooms? Leave fruits at my doorstep?” The week she moved out of his barge, she had received her first basket. They’d kept coming, once a week without fail. Mary had taken it as a sign of Lucien’s approval of her final step to living her own life.

A stillness settled over the room. Lucien tilted his head slightly as he studied her. Contemplation made his voice smooth and low. “No.”

The half-eaten apple grew heavy in her hand. “Nor figs in winter? Strawberries in the spring? Or plums and cherries in the summer?”

A small smile crept over his mouth. “No, no, and no.”

Mary blinked at him, unable to say a word more. A strange bitter flavor coated her tongue. Years, she’d received those gifts of fruit. She thought of the other small gifts, the ones that upon reflection did not fit with Lucien’s grand gestures. The thick mackintosh overcoat the year it rained incessantly, the fine set of steel quill nibs that showed up when she broke one of hers, a flagon of spiced wine on Christmas day. For years, at least four…

Dizzy, she leaned against the wall, her arm pressing against the cool window. “But…”

Lucien’s voice held a hint of teasing as he softly sang, “Somebody has an admirer.” He leaned farther back in his chair and laced his hands over his stomach. “Now who could it be?” His toe tapped faster now. “Oh, surely not that angry shifter who nearly tore my head off when I went searching for your key?” He tutted, but his eyes held Mary’s. “After all, he has hated you for all these years.”

The apple fell from Mary’s fingers and hit the floor with a juicy thwack. Whatever else Lucien said fell on deaf ears as she stalked out of the room.





Chapter Thirty





If the light glowing in his bedroom window was any indication, Jack was still awake. Which was preferable, for despite her turmoil, Mary hadn’t the heart to creep up on him while he slept. Jack was proud, but had not stopped the staff at Ranulf House from gossiping about his vocal nightmares. In hindsight, that more than anything was the likely reason for his decampment to a home of his own.

In cowardly fashion she hovered by the gatepost, silently cursing her unmoving feet. Everything would change if she went into his house. She knew it on a visceral level. What she did not know was if she wanted the change. Nor if she’d be welcome, after the way she’d tossed his declarations back in his face.

“Only one way to know, you ninny.” Taking a deep breath, Mary let herself in through the back door and made her way up the stairs. Darkness steeped the house in tones of blue and black, and the only sound came from the hall clock ticking and the countermeasure of her heart clicking. She did not attempt to be quiet, nor did she stomp about with her displeasure. He’d scent her coming at any rate, probably had been aware of her a block out. Even so, her breath was stilted, and her heart whirred faster as she carefully mounted each riser.

A sliver of golden light marked his door. No movement from beyond it. Only stillness and Jack Talent waiting. Even though she yearned to, she did not pause at the threshold but boldly put her hand on the doorknob and opened it.

Most people read in a chair. Not so for Jack. No, he sat, tucked up in the middle of his pasha’s bed, saffron silk pillows piled behind his head, a blue velvet duvet over his lap. Clearly he read there often, for a small table and reading lamp were set up just next to the bed. Lamplight cast his skin in honey gold.

That glorious torso of his was once more unveiled. Lovely, sculpted, built for strength and endurance. Her body tightened, and her lungs seized. It had been one thing to see him when she thought him unaware. It was quite another to face him in the flesh. And he was looking at her, as if he too knew the significance.

Her lips parted, but no sound came. It was not resentment that darkened his eyes, but a hint of fearful resignation, as though he waited for the ax to fall. Yet beneath it all, something simmered like yearning, only stronger. It was that need, so carefully tamped down and controlled, and so much like hers, that tugged at her soul. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything more than take a step farther into the room.

Talent’s body went perceptibly harder, his muscles bunching, yet his hands remained still upon the book in his lap. Her hands, however, shook as she lifted the apple from her pocket and presented it.