Shadowdance(19)

Maman. Ha. They weren’t even French. It had taken Mary ridiculously long to figure that out as well. But Maman was long dead, and that part of Mary’s life over.

She had friends. Tonight she might have gone out, might have danced and laughed. Yet she had stayed home. For she did not know how to be at ease with others. She’d never learned, growing up as that girl in the ivory tower. Mary sighed and sank back into her body. The sensation was akin to slipping under a warm blanket. It took her but a moment to orient, pick up her book, and turn toward the warmth of her heating stove. The cream enamel Swedish stove was more efficient and used fragrant wood instead of muddy coal. Behind the grate the flames danced. Self-pity never helped a thing. And she was better off than most. Being alone was perfectly fine. Perfectly.

A creak sounded upon her landing. Tensing, she glanced over the high back of her couch. Her hall was dark, only the small reading lamp at her side hissing away. Which made the sliver of light shining along the base of her front door perfectly visible, as was the shadow of someone standing behind the door. Mary’s hand slid to the revolver she kept by her side. Even in her home, she never let herself be without a weapon.

When she wanted to, Mary could move with speed and silence. In a blink she lightly vaulted over the couch, ripped open the door, and had her gun cocked and aimed. At Jack Talent’s broad chest.

“Put it away,” he said in a bored tone.

She allowed herself the pleasure of ignoring his request for a long moment. Then she lowered the gun and took stock of him. He stood, feet braced, hands at his side, in a manner that ought to have conveyed trust, but with his rippling strength, he appeared ready to pounce. Mist glittered at the tips of his cropped hair and on the weave of his black wool overcoat. He towered over her, all bunching muscle and boiling energy, and he had to tilt his head down to meet her gaze.

“I thought you were at Daisy’s birthday ball,” she said.

A deep furrow ran between his brows, brows that, when he smiled, tilted upward at the tips like the leaves of a bascule bridge. The feature ought to have given him an open, almost boyish look of expectancy, but his sour nature fought that appearance, twisting it into a near-permanent glower of disappointment. Even so, the very idea that nature had given him a face more inclined to joy made her fight a smile. Served him right for being so prickly.

“I thought you were invited too.” He gave a pointed look at her simple housedress. Mary kept her focus on his chin, now covered in a fine stubble of evening growth. It made his mouth appear softer, defining the bow of his upper lip. She flicked her gaze back up to his eyes.

“I didn’t fancy going out to a party.” Or seeing him there, if she were honest. Mingling with Jack Talent in a social setting was more than she could tolerate at the moment. Yet here he was, at her home. Her skin prickled.

His voice grew flinty. “I didn’t fancy staying.”

Before she could ask why he was here, or how he’d even found her home, he brushed past, his upper arm grazing the tips of her breasts as he went. Mary crossed her arms over them as she pivoted to face him. “Oh, do come in.”

“Thank you.” He made himself at home on the parlor chair, which, unfortunately, was big enough to accommodate his large frame. The sight made her want to stamp her foot, or bolt. This was her refuge, and he was filling it up with his scent, his energy. She’d be surrounded by it for days now, unable to scrub it from her furniture.

Lamplight shone over his blunt profile as he glanced about her room, taking it all in. “Cozy flat.” The high bridge of his nose wrinkled. “Small, though.”

Resigned to the fact that he wasn’t leaving, Mary closed the door and set her gun upon the hall table. “Yes, well, I had a larger place but I kept getting lost.” Actually, she owned the building, but he needn’t know that.

His quick grin returned before he took it upon himself to pick up the book she’d discarded and leaf through it. “I always thought Mr. Rochester was a melodramatic prat.” He tossed the book back down.

“I like Jane.”

“Everyone likes Jane.” He picked up an apple from the glass bowl she had placed in the center of her tea table. Mary loved apples, and every fortnight she found a basketful of them sitting on her doorstep. A gift from Lucien that she’d always appreciated. Talent stared down at the green-and-red-marbled fruit engulfed by his big hand. He contemplated it for a moment, a strange look ghosting over his features before he appeared to pull himself free from whatever thought haunted him and took a hearty bite. Mouth full of crisp apple, he munched away, a bit of juice making his firm lips wet. And all the while, he watched her.