12

O ver the course of the meal, Miss Wynchester peppered Stephen with a steady stream of inquiries about his cousin. Stephen forced himself to respond as pleasantly as he could, but the questions kept coming. It was one thing for Densmore to deflect unwanted attention from strangers when he was actually there, and quite another for the earl to be distracting Miss Wynchester from any thought of Stephen while they were alone together in the same room.

When the last dish had been served and the topic had not changed, he groused, "Are you writing a biography about the man?"

"Not me," she replied. "My brother."

Stephen paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. "Your brother is writing a biography about the Earl of Densmore?"

"Graham keeps extensive journals on everyone in London and its periphery. His notes on your cousin are light only because Densmore is rarely in London, seeing as his lordship has never bothered to take his seat in the House of Lords. I want to be certain to pass on any information that might aid my family. These details give me something to include in my daily summaries."

"You send home daily summaries?"

"I'd report hourly, if there was anything useful to relay."

Hourly. Stephen could not fathom communicating that frequently with other human beings. "Are your missions always like this?"

"Not at all. Usually I undertake cases alongside my siblings." She popped a strawberry into her mouth. "This time, it's you and me."

He nodded in comprehension. Miss Wynchester hadn't simply barged into his territory uninvited. She hadn't expected to find Stephen here, either. And now they were both saddled with each other, for better or for worse.

For the first time in possibly ever , Stephen was part of a team. It had never happened before, for a variety of reasons. His preference for solitude, other people's preference for… anything but Stephen.

The arrangement hadn't bothered him because he kept his life too full to have space for anyone else. If anything, he had dedicated a fair bit of his energy to keeping people out at all costs. Miss Wynchester had forced her way in.

To his surprise, he kind of liked her there.

One could argue that their initial impressions of the other had not been under ideal circumstances. But from the very first, Miss Wynchester had beheld Stephen at full tinker, and accepted him that way without hesitation. By word or gesture, she had given no indication of perceiving his idiosyncrasies as flaws. Her only questions had been how she could best navigate the world he'd created, rather than insist he become someone other than the person he was.

Maybe because she, too, knew what it was like not to fit others' expectations. She'd certainly defied all of his, in the best possible ways.

There was no choice but to accept the beautiful berserker as a new variable in the formula of his life. The equation had changed, if temporarily. For a short while, it would be two against the world.

"It's late," he said as the last of the plates had cleared. "I'll leave you to relax in your quarters."

"What are you going to do?"

Think about her. Polish his monocle. Take a cold bath.

"Reset my machines," he answered. "I'm working on a new one up on the roof."

"A murder machine?" she asked eagerly.

"Not all my machines are murder machines."

"Well, that's disappointing."

He could not help but smile. Stephen invented systems to keep boredom at bay, but since Miss Wynchester's arrival, he had not been bored once.

"If you ask me nicely, there's a 0.89 probability that I might turn my rooftop device into a murder machine just for you."

"That is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me. If you did so, I would swoon on the spot." She gave a happy sigh. "I love percentages. I'm at fifty-five at the moment."

He waited.

That appeared to be the end of the explanation.

"Fifty-five what?" he asked politely.

"Fifty-five percent Elizabeth," she answered as she rose to her feet.

He joined her. "What does that mean? Aren't you always one hundred percent Elizabeth?"

"The percentages are an agility thermometer. It measures current capabilities compared to maximum strength."

"What were you this morning, when you attacked the castle with battle-axes?"

"Sixty-five and falling."

"‘Beth the Berserker' is Elizabeth Wynchester at sixty-five percent power?" he said in disbelief. "What must you be like at full capacity?"

Her eyes glinted deviously. "The world has yet to find out."

"I'm not sure anyone is ready to find out. The universe might come apart at the seams."

"Destroyer of Worlds," she said dreamily. "It does have a nice ring to it."

She was certainly turning Stephen's orderly world upside down.

She was also standing only a few inches away from him, and in no apparent hurry to hie off to her private quarters.

Standing there, within arm's reach. Touching distance. Kissing distance. He longed to scoop her into his arms and find out if she tasted half as good as she looked… and he suspected she knew it.

He couldn't prevent his body from reacting to her, try as he might. Even with bits of blue and pink chalk dust still clinging to her hair, she was an impossibly tempting, voluptuous siren. Stephen had never seen a prettier picture.

But pictures were for looking at, not touching. And this was his guest, not his lover. The last thing a gentleman of any moral substance ought to attempt was—

"Well, are you going to do it or not?" she demanded.

He stared at her. "Going to do what?"

"Good God, I always have to do everything," she muttered, and hooked her cane over the back of the closest chair. " This ."

She grabbed his lapels with both hands and lifted her lips to his.