Chapter Twenty-Six

The instant Oscar received Honoria's sweetly worded invitation to dine with her family at Hartley Hall, he knew she was up

to something.

By the end of the evening, when she'd oh so subtly slipped in a question about Ladrón, he knew what it was.

But he had no intention of letting her win this game. He did, however, play his hand just enough to procure another invitation

for the following evening, just to see how creative she would be.

This gameplay continued—the back-and-forth, from subtle query to clever evasion—for four evenings in a row that week. And

he wondered if she realized how much she was revealing to him with her concern for his welfare.

Admittedly, it was rather nice having her worried about him. Nicer still that she found some reason to reach out and touch

him. Just simple, casual gestures—brushing a speck of road dust from his shoulder, tugging a loose thread from a waistcoat

button, sliding her arm through his without waiting for him to proffer his own. And this evening, she'd even smoothed a lock

of hair from his forehead.

She was likely trying to lull him into acquiescence, wanting to put him so at ease that he'd accidentally reveal more information.

"And what has you grinning all of a sudden?" Honoria asked as he escorted her into dinner that evening.

Glancing up from his sleeve where she had brushed away one of her blond hairs, he looked at her heart-shaped face tilted toward his, her gambler's eyes searching for some sort of tell. "No reason. Just pleased to be here, I suppose."

"After my father threatened to have you sing for us one evening, I should have thought you wary."

Oscar shook his head on a wry laugh. "As I told him, none of you should wish that torture upon yourselves. Cardew claims that

I can startle the feathers off a chicken."

"In my family, that skill is all the more desirable. Imagine how pleased the cook would be for you to belt out a few bars,"

she said, smiling as he left her at her chair and crossed to his on the other side of the table.

It was strange, indeed, to have a customary chair. To know that each evening he dined here there would be a place at the table.

For him.

From the age of seven, his life had been spent in various taverns, hotels or rented flats. There had been some evenings where

Mother, Cardew and he had sat around a table to share a meal. But it wasn't commonplace. There was never any routine that

he could settle into.

Of course, he had a place at the head of the table at the abbey now, but it wasn't the same.

No, the Hartleys had something different. Something special that men like him only glimpsed through a pane of glass.

He had never been part of a traditional family. Not to say that the Hartley clan were at all traditional. They were something

else altogether. Yet, somehow, it worked. Their household, while eccentric and surprising, was also welcoming.

Each evening this week, he'd watched them, studying the way they interacted with each other, and he wondered if they possessed

some sort of magic.

He was growing used to the baron spontaneously offering Shakespearean wisdom. So it didn't surprise him that Hartley fell

into character during the soup course.

Hunching over his creamware bowl, he took a pinch of salt and sprinkled it over the surface. In a gravelly cackle, he said, "‘Eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog.'" When the wolfhounds lifted their heads from where they sprawled at the foot of the buffet, he addressed them with assurance. "No one you know, lads."

As if in understanding, they settled down, resting their wiry gray muzzles upon their paws.

It really was magic, Oscar thought. What other explanation was there to be among these strangers and not feel like a stranger?

So when he felt his guard slipping, like autumn leaves drifting from breeze-tickled branches, he attributed his overall ease

and enjoyment to some power the Hartleys possessed.

They were spellcasters, weaving incantations. And whatever magic this was, he knew that the widows didn't possess it. They

were more like the witches stirring the cauldron, muttering, " Double, double toil and trouble ..."

But what did it say about him that he felt more deserving of their scorn than of the Hartleys' acceptance?

***

After finishing out the night with cards—whereupon Oscar sensibly lost every hand—he took his leave. But not before graciously

accepting Lady Hartley's invitation to return on the morrow, even at the risk of being forced to demonstrate his singing skills.

Then, as he had done the previous three evenings, he bade farewell to Honoria at the door.

He purposely abstained from asking to walk with her in the garden, knowing full well the eventuality of a kiss. Even though

he craved her lips like a man bespelled and bewitched, he left her staring after him with a delightfully furrowed brow in

the foyer.

He was playing the long game, waiting for his opponent to make her move. Waiting for her to admit to herself that there was something between them.

But she didn't stay him with a beseeching hand on his sleeve. She did not follow him out into the dusty purple of twilight,

the air singing with the chirrup of crickets.

So he stepped into the carriage and tapped on the roof for Raglan to drive him home.

The horses barely managed to trundle around the crescent drive before he saw an elegant hand grip the door through the open

window. And then Honoria's face appeared, flaxen curls tumbling from their pins and her expression fraught with vexation.

"Just so you know, running after a coach is much easier in trousers. I think I lost a slipper, drat it all."

Oscar suppressed the grin that threatened to reveal his hand, ignored the sudden wild beating of his heart and blandly asked,

"Would you like me to unbolt the door?"

"If you would be so kind."

Gripping her hand so she didn't lose her footing, he opened the door. The instant she tumbled inside, he pulled her onto his

lap and sealed his mouth over hers.

This , he thought when she met him halfway, her hands already in his hair, body arching into him. This is what men cross continents to find. This is why men wage war, write sonnets and sing ballads. It's all for this.

He had never experienced such passion and yearning in his life, and he desperately wanted to take her, to claim her as his

own. To order Raglan to keep driving and never stop.

The elixir of her sweet scent filled his head, making him dizzy with want. He could get drunk on this woman, on her heady

kisses, on the way she raked her teeth over his lower lip before soothing it with her tongue.

Growling, he deepened the kiss, angling her mouth beneath his. But she was hard to hold onto in her yellow satin gown. When her perfectly rounded rump started to slip down between his thighs, he lifted her at the waist, situating her to straddle him.

They both groaned as the heat of her settled against the straining fall of his black trousers. Their frenzy from an instant

ago seemed little more than a stroll through a shaded lane compared to the galloping heat that consumed them now.

She clawed at his cravat, deft fingers unknotting it, his pulse racing beneath the hot press of her lips. Lost in pleasure,

he arched his neck, one hand tangling in her hair, the other drawing her hips flush.

"I knew it, Signore. I knew that if I waited just long—" His hand settled on a thick leather pouch strapped to her thigh.

"What's this?"

"Hmm?" Honoria nibbled along his jaw, purring against his skin.

For a moment, he was distracted as her hips undulated, rocking with the motion of the carriage. But when he nudged her thighs

wider, wanting more of her heat, his fingers grazed the leather again.

Coming up for air, with her cheeks flushed and mouth swollen from being admirably kissed, she glanced down at where his hand

enveloped her thigh. "Oh. Well, that's... actually the reason I rushed out to your carriage... in the first place."

It took a moment to clear his head enough from the haze of lust to understand what game she was really playing.

When she tugged on the leather laces, fingers fumbling in her attempts, the leather pouch fell open.

A fan of bank notes spilled out. And everything inside him went cold.

He hid his anger behind a slow smirk. "My, my, Miss Hartley. This seems like a great deal of money to ensure your satisfaction.

But your manner of delivery is incorrect. The way most aristocrats like to treat this sort of favor is to use the money as

a lure. Only once you are satisfied do you toss the money in the gutter and watch me scurry after it."

She shook her head, the flesh above the bridge of her nose furrowing.

"Do you see this?" he continued, tugging the collar and shirt neck aside to reveal a silvered pucker of flesh in the once-tender

skin. "This is what happens when a boy refuses what's expected of him for half a crown. And this"—he held open his hand—"was

from my first attempt at pickpocketing."

She recoiled from the venom he could not keep out of his tone. Then he saw the shimmer of tears in the lantern light as she

discerned the reprehensible truth of his admission.

"That isn't what I wanted. I didn't know. I just—"

"Didn't want to think about the way a boy grows into being a ruthless and despicable scoundrel? A man capable of blackmailing

a woman for money?" Then he dragged his thumb across the wet trail on her cheek. "A man who even threatens to marry her by

pretending to be someone he's not?"

"But that's not who you are."

"Correct. That's not who I am," he said, setting her apart from him. Then he rapped his knuckles against the hood. "Raglan,

turn around. Miss Hartley would like to return home, where she belongs."

In the ensuing silence, she managed to set herself back to rights before the carriage stopped at her door.

"You need to pay Ladrón. Please, Oscar. Take it."

He clenched his teeth and kept his face averted toward the descending darkness. "If you don't wish to see what other vile

things I'm capable of, then you will flee this carriage at once and take your almsdeed with you."

When the carriage shifted and the door closed, he told Raglan to drive on, and he never looked back.