Kathryn Smith (10 page)

Now this was more like the man she was becoming accustomed to. “The others are coming at seven. You are welcome
to come earlier if you like, although I cannot promise to be much of a hostess.”

He brought his head closer to hers, his gaze darkening. His arm on the table was so very close to hers. The barest shift and their sleeves would touch. “I’m more concerned about later. What happens after everyone else leaves? May I remain?”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. He had been serious about wanting to seduce her, then. She glanced around the shop. Was anyone watching them? Thankfully, no. “You should not say such things.”

He smiled that lopsided smirk that she was starting to like. “But it is so much more amusing than merely thinking them.”

She couldn’t argue with that. “Do you always say what you think?”

“No, not always. I believe you to be the kind of woman who does more thinking than saying.”

Was that an insult or a compliment? Neither, she thought. It was simply an observation, and a fairly astute one. The only people to whom she had ever let herself say anything less than proper had been Tony and Nathan, and occasionally Minnie. Wynthrope Ryland, however, was quickly becoming someone she felt she could say anything to, and he wouldn’t think the less of her for it.

“It is easier to take back things when they are not spoken aloud,” she informed him.

His reply was quick. “I make a point of never saying anything I would want to take back.”

“Never?” Her tone was dubious.

“Never.” He jabbed the tabletop with his finger. “If there are consequences I will face them.”

How amusing it was to hear him be so sure, so unmoving about something. “Is it not better to avoid them all together?”

His jaw tightened, and the hand on the table curled into a fist. “There are things one cannot avoid.”

Why did she think they were no longer discussing the same thing? What had started out as simple flirtation now felt like something much more serious. There was something amiss with Wynthrope. Perhaps he was simply allowing her to see his true self, or perhaps something had happened to put him in this strange mood. Whatever it was, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, and she couldn’t help but think it had something to do with her.

If it weren’t for the fact that he was still being very bold with her, she might believe he had lost interest. Or perhaps her fears had been right, and he wasn’t truly interested in her at all.

Or maybe he had more on his mind than flirting with her. Not everything had to be of her doing, or involve her. The man had a life that had nothing to do with her.

“You look very pained, my lady.”

He said “my lady” as more than just a social nicety. He said it as though she really was
his
.

She regarded him with open honesty. “I am concerned about this curious mood you seem to be in, sir. Is that blunt enough for you?”

His lips curved into a mocking smile, but the warmth of his gaze told her he appreciated her concern, and softened the caustic tilt of his lips. “I promise to be myself again tomorrow evening at your gathering.”

Moira smiled in return. “Good.”

“But only if you allow me to stay after the others have left.”

Oh, he was a dangerous man! And as impossible to say no to as a precocious little boy. “Fine.”

“Excellent.” His fingers inched closer to hers on the tabletop. “Do you play chess?”

Chess. His hand was no more than a fraction of an inch from hers and he wanted to talk of chess? No talk of seduction or kisses, or likening her to food?

“I have played,” she admitted, her fingers itching to touch his. “I have my husband’s old set.”

He nodded. Did it bother him when she mentioned Tony? “We shall play then.”

“I would have thought you more of a gambling man than a chess player.” Men who played chess were usually the intellectual sort. That wasn’t to say that she thought Wynthrope unintelligent, she knew he was quite the opposite, it was just that he seemed the type to prefer something more…stimulating.

His expression was both patronizing and endearing. “My dear Moira, chess is a game of strategy and cunning. It is not about luck, but about systematically defeating your opponent.”

How positively divine. “When you put it like that, how could I possibly say no?”

Her sarcasm was not lost on him, and he grinned like a mischievous boy. She preferred this grin even more than the charming crooked one. “Do not tell me that the idea of having me at your mercy doesn’t appeal to you.”

At her mercy? Him? She could scarcely imagine such a thing. But there was some truth in his words. The idea of having him under her power, even if only for a little while…

“I can see from your expression that the idea
does
appeal to you.” The light in his eyes burned like the hottest flame. “Best me and I will cater to your every whim for the rest of the evening, until you set me free.”

Oh, he certainly knew how to tempt her! “And if you win?”

His gaze flickered over her briefly—long enough to set her entire body aflame—before returning to hers. “I have some whims I would like you to cater to.”

She should have known. She had known. She had willingly walked into this situation, knowing full well where the path led. She could not pretend to be shocked when in the deepest part of her she had hoped their conversation would lead to this point.

“You will not make me do anything I do not want to do?” Her question was so softly voiced, even she had difficulty hearing it.

Apparently he hadn’t the same trouble. His smile was tight, as though he resented her even suspecting he might do something so dishonorable. “You may be surprised by what you will want to do, Moira, but no. I will not force you.”

Part of her had known he wouldn’t, but still she’d had to ask. “All right. We will play. And we will see who caters to whom.”

Dark blue eyes glinted as he leaned ever so slightly closer. “Either way, I do not see how I can lose.” Then he winked at her and straightened. “Ah, I see my brother is here.”

His timing was perfect, as Nathaniel had just returned. “Until tomorrow evening then, Lady Aubourn.” Setting his hat on his head, he touched the brim to her.

Moira nodded. “Mr. Ryland.”

And then with a word to Nathaniel, he was gone, and her friend was seating himself across the table from her, a cup of hot, fragrant chocolate in either hand.

“How did it go with Matthew?” she asked.

“We’ll talk about that later,” Nathaniel began as he slid a cup toward her. “First, I want you to tell me everything that you and Ryland just said.”

Night came early to London this late into December. It wasn’t yet evening and already the city was wrapped in darkness. Wynthrope sat alone in his apartments, in a winged chair by a window that overlooked the street below.
The room was dark save for the fire blazing in the hearth. The heat should have been comforting, but it wasn’t. The flames cast sinister shadows on the walls, shadows that threatened to overpower him and drag him down into their world. He waited, but they didn’t come. Perhaps they didn’t want him. Perhaps his soul was too black even for them.

A half-finished glass of whiskey languished in his hand as he propped his booted feet up on the sill, crossing them at the ankle. He could go out. There wasn’t an abundance of society in town at this time of year, but the clubs still did business, and there were those like him who stayed in London year round. No doubt he could find someone to amuse him somewhere in this city, but he didn’t feel like being diverted. He felt like obsessing over every little detail of his life, and he needed to be alone to do that.

Gazing past his own reflection in the glass, he stared out at the bustle beneath him. The street was wet and bare save for the odd streak of dirty snow and pile of horse droppings. Carriages rolled by in a steady rhythm, though a far cry from the bustle the season usually brought. People strolled along the sidewalks, men and women arm-in-arm, gentlemen engaged in convivial conversation. Occasionally a solitary lady walked past. They probably weren’t “ladies” at all—not the proper sort, not if they were alone. Where were they going? Would they be safe? Did they care? Did he?

The street lamps were lit, haloed like bizarre metal angels in the night. Perhaps it was just his mood, but he fancied there was something mystical about them, something magical and otherworldly. Maybe if he waited long enough, one of these lamps would offer him the answers he was looking for.

Beyond the lamps were other windows in the buildings across the street, illuminated by lamps and candles. Not one of them had someone sitting before them. It was just he, staring out into the night with no one staring back.

Above those windows, snow clung to the roofs and eaves. So pure and white, the snow seemed to have a luminosity all its own, and of course the sight of it, paired with the velvet black of night, made him think of Moira.

It had been both awful and delightful to see her earlier at the coffee house. He had wanted to haul her into his arms and kiss her until everything felt right with the world once more. He had also wanted to run away, because looking her in the eye had been more difficult than he ever would have thought.

He wasn’t betraying her. They weren’t involved deeply enough yet for it to be that. He simply had to use her to protect her and his family. It was for her own good. If he didn’t do it, Daniels wouldn’t stop at ruining his family. The old man might get someone else to do the job—someone who wouldn’t flinch at physically harming Moira to get to the tiara.

What a load of horse shite. What difference did it make why he was doing it? He was going to do it and that was the end of it. It wasn’t personal and it didn’t change the fact that he wanted her. And it certainly didn’t change the fact that he intended to have her. Moira Tyndale had something he wanted—something besides the tiara. He didn’t give a damn about the tiara. He wanted to know what she saw in him. He wanted her to make him feel like he was something special without having to be someone else.

True, she wouldn’t think he was so damn special if she knew that he planned to steal from her, but she would never know—provided he hadn’t lost his touch. She wouldn’t be the first woman he stole from while having an affair with her. Though, he hoped she would be the last.

It didn’t change the fact that he felt dirty just thinking about it. It didn’t change the fact that it pretty much ensured that his relationship could go no further than a physical
one—not that he wanted more, of course. Stealing this tiara would not ruin his life, nor would the loss of it ruin Moira’s, but the simple truth was that if he didn’t steal it, both North and Devlin would suffer. Wynthrope could not allow that to happen.

As much as he liked her, Moira came second to his brothers. And he himself came second to her. It did not matter what he wanted, or what he wished. All that mattered was the trial awaiting him. He would steal her tiara, and when he tired of her, or when he discovered that she no longer made him feel special, he would walk away and keep looking for that someone or something that did. Because the alternative was to face the possibility that he wasn’t special at all, that there was nothing about him worth loving, and he wasn’t ready to accept that, no matter how much he feared it might be true.

It had taken a force of will he hadn’t known he possessed to keep his secret from North. A voice in his head had insisted that he confess all, that North would know what to do. Another voice argued that North had already sacrificed enough to save Wynthrope’s arse. He could not allow his brother’s desire to do the right thing to cloud his judgment again. He would not allow North to put him first, not when North had a wife to think of.

His brother probably suspected something was wrong, but he hadn’t asked. He had just watched him with pale blue eyes and waited for Wynthrope to confess. Somehow, Wynthrope had managed to keep it all inside. Knowing that the truth would put his brother in harm’s way had helped. Knowing that Brahm would eventually find out—his eldest brother always found out—was another reason. It wouldn’t surprise him if Brahm knew about his past and was just sitting on the knowledge, waiting to use it for his own advantage. He would not give Brahm the opportunity to lord anything over
him. It had been bad enough growing up in his shadow, always being held up to him and found lacking. He would not spend his adult life being compared to a man who was a social pariah because he had no self-control.

It didn’t surprise him that North had noticed that he wasn’t quite himself—or rather, that he wasn’t the self he liked to project. He and North had always been close. What surprised him was that Moira had noticed as well. He was normally so good at hiding his emotions. Until now only his brothers had ever been able to see through him. Perhaps he wasn’t as skilled at hiding as he believed. Or perhaps Moira Tyndale was some kind of witch. Lord knew she had woven some kind of spell around him. He would have to be careful around her. If she caught even the slightest hint that he was deceiving her, she’d withdraw from him and make finding that damn tiara all that much more difficult.

And he had yet to claim her, he wasn’t ready to lose her just yet. Why it was so important that he have her was a mystery. He only knew that she held the answer to a question he couldn’t put into words, that he himself didn’t quite know the significance of.

Just this one last job and then he was done with thievery forever. He could finally close the door on that part of his life.

At least until Daniels decided to blackmail him again.

No, the old man meant what he said. Daniels was many things, but he was still a man of his word—honor among thieves and all that. He wanted to get away from England and the enemies he had made, and once he was gone he would not return. After this, Wynthrope would never see him again.

And what of Moira? When this was over, would he ever see her again? Unlikely. Continuing any kind of relationship with her after using her so badly was beyond even him. That was the true sin of this whole situation. He liked Moira. He
didn’t just desire her; he enjoyed her company. Their acquaintance had only just begun, and already he was counting the hours until he could see her again. He was jealous of her friendship with Nathaniel Caylan; they actually did things together. Caylan knew her better than Wynthrope did, and that annoyed him. He would have to remedy that.