Chapter Six

The following day, Oscar knew Honoria was up to something. He'd known it from the instant he'd arrived at Hartley Hall and

she'd greeted him with a heart-stopping smile as she'd sauntered down the stairway in a dress the color of seafoam. And now

that they were situated beneath the elm at the top of this hill, there was something all too cunning in those Aegean-blue

eyes as she arranged an assortment of tasseled pillows over a raft of fringed shawls.

The siren was, most decidedly, up to something.

All would be revealed soon enough, he thought. But she was about to discover that he was steering this ship. She wasn't.

In the meantime, he just wanted to relax and enjoy some edible food for a change. Or, at least, he hoped it would be edible.

His last bite of anything remotely palatable had been the single forkful of bacon he'd had yesterday morning... before

Millicent had brought her fist down onto the table and upended a spoon of coddled eggs at him. Then, last evening, the cook

served a sort of grayish fish after the first course of gray soup, followed by an aspic of something mysteriously cloudy.

And he was convinced that the main course had been the sole of a boot.

This morning, the breakfast room had been empty, the widows having chosen to dine in their rooms. And beneath a cloche on

the buffet had been a putrid gray sludge.

Apparently, the widows were trying to starve him into retreating. And yet, as he warily peered into the hamper of picnic fare he'd requested from Mrs. Blandings, he wondered if each dish had been sprinkled with arsenic.

Then again, a little rat poison might improve the flavor.

On second thought, he turned his attention to the smaller basket stuffed with straw. "I wonder if the wine survived. Though,

if it did, it wasn't with any thanks to my driver."

"Indeed," she said, her gaze passing from Hartley Hall's hamper to where her maid was sitting near the carriage down the hill

and looking a rather bilious shade of green, even from this distance. "However, it does point to the reason the widows rarely

leave the abbey."

"I'm afraid that was for my benefit. Apparently, both the usual driver and the well-sprung landau have taken ill," he said

wryly. "Which left the stable hand and that torture chamber we rode in as my only option. Yet another warm welcome from the

widows."

"I am surprised that they didn't leave you with two lame horses, as well, so that you would be forced to shoot them and trudge

back on foot."

"I doubt they would have provided me a pistol."

A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. "No, they wouldn't have done."

"Ah—huzzah!" he said, brushing the straw from the bottle. "Though, I highly suspect that the wine is either a dreadful vintage

or the contents are merely leftover violet dye from the laundress."

"It could not be worse than mine. This will be more than half water." With a wry shake of her head, she held up the pale,

faintly pinkened liquid from her own basket. "Our cook believes that we're all still children. Mother, on the other hand,

ensured that these were in the hamper. She calls them Mad Dash—"

Catching the heavenly scent on the breeze, even before she withdrew the scrap of toweling, he snatched the plate out of her grasp.

"—Biscuits," she concluded as he gobbled up the first.

He closed his eyes on a sigh of pleasure. Then he proceeded to inhale five more of the sweetly spiced, buttery bits of crumbly

perfection before coming up for air. Her light laugh drew his attention, and he begrudgingly offered her the plate, but she

declined with a shake of her head.

"You are welcome to them," she said. "As for me, I try to avoid that particular family recipe."

Mouth full, he eyed the remaining biscuits with suspicion. "Why is that?"

"Fear not. There's nothing wrong with them. It's just that Mother claims they have the power to make a couple fly off to Gretna

Green."

He swallowed in relief. "Is that all?"

"I prefer to stay far afield of anything relating to matrimony." She watched him devour two more, her head tilted slightly

to one side as she studied him. "How long have you had such a fondness for biscuits?"

Aaand there it is , he thought, his suspicions prickling when he saw that smile return.

Setting the plate aside, he brushed a few errant crumbs from his cravat. "I'd wondered when it would begin."

"When what would begin?"

"The seemingly innocuous small talk that leads into probing questions. Though, I hardly think the answer regarding biscuits

will give you leverage over me. And that is your ultimate design, is it not? To find a way to send me packing?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes, of course. I fully intended to take the empty plate of biscuits, along with the secret knowledge

I'd gleaned, directly to the magistrate. Honestly, are you incapable of engaging in polite conversation? And no, that wasn't

an actual question, in case you were wondering."

Heaving out a sigh, she shook her head and went back to sorting the contents of their picnic.

Atop a sunny woolen shawl, she laid out the dishes from her basket: hard-boiled eggs, roasted fowl, mutton chops, sliced tomatoes,

and assorted pastries, cheeses and breads wrapped in cloths. But she piled the congealed calf's head and various gray foods

from his basket off to the side. Which he didn't mind in the least.

What he did mind, however, was that the smile was gone from her face, and along with it their easy camaraderie.

In his own defense, his deflection had been a reflex. A knee-jerk reaction.

"Tell you what," he said, trying to lighten the mood as he wrenched the cork from the abbey's wine. "I'll be first to drink

this, and if I die, then all the better for you."

"Fine."

That word, spoken in that ice-pick tone was most certainly not fine .

Bloody hell. He supposed answering one question wouldn't be the death of him.

"Today," he said reluctantly. "Today is when I discovered I have a fondness for biscuits. There. Are you happy?"

Her flaxen brows drew together, making them appear as though they were caught by an invisible thread to form the most delicate

of furrows. "You've never had biscuits before?"

He'd smelled them before. Lots of times. He remembered being chased away from a town house for sneaking up from the mews to

peer through a kitchen window.

He'd been about six or seven when he'd spied a plump cook in her apron, taking biscuits out of an oven and placing the cooled

ones on a plate that rested on a trestle table. When her back was turned, a boy and a girl in fine clothes, sitting on stools

and swinging their feet, would steal a few and dunk them in their tea. They'd gobbled them up before the cook pretended she'd

just caught them, fondly wagging her finger.

But ogling from afar was all he'd done as a lad. Confections had never been a priority. Back then, he'd known that, if he was going to steal anything, it had better be meat or money. Or something he could pawn for money.

In the years after Cardew came along, they'd stayed in places that served fancy tarts, iced cakes, and rum-soaked puddings

set ablaze. And there had been biscuits all tied in a box with string. Even broken pieces served in a cone by some shops.

But those never tempted him. They didn't fit the picture that had lingered in the back of his mind like a forgotten trunk

in the attic.

"No," he answered, leaving it at that.

She eyed him as he reached across the shawl for the glasses she'd unearthed. "Hmm... It will be a challenge, but somehow

I will devise a way to use that information for nefarious purposes."

"If anyone could, I'm certain it would be you."

"There's a compliment buried in that muttered statement, I'm sure of it."

After she set the empty hampers aside, he glanced over just as she lifted her arms to remove the pins from her straw hat.

The action drew his attention to the graceful lines of her form, down the elegant column of her throat, over the lovely expanse

of creamy skin and soft swells rising above the hint of lace peeking out from her snug bodice. And when a breeze stirred through

an artful coil of flaxen curls, he caught a scent that made his mouth water as he imagined—

"How is the wine?"

Her question yanked his attention back to the bottle in his grasp... just in time to stop him from overflowing his cup.

Muttering a curse at the few droplets that splashed onto his fingers, he then took a few thirsty gulps as if that had been

the intention all along. "It'll do."

"Or the poison could have a delayed effect," she offered sweetly. "Either way, you'd be the first to go."

"Oh, but I always believe in ladies first."

Handing her a glass, he saw her bemused expression. But before she could ponder too long on his salacious double entendre, he touched his rim to hers and drank again.

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug after she swallowed. Granted, it wasn't the best vintage, but it served the purpose of quenching

the palate on a warm day. Setting her cup aside, she began piling various foods on a pair of blue-and-white porcelain plates.

"With two baskets between us, we are dining in the true spirit of picnicking," she said blithely, handing a plate to him.

"My parents were once part of a theater troupe, and they attended the Pic Nic Society gatherings brought here by the French.

At these parties, each guest was expected to contribute to the meal with food and wine. Afterward, there would often be a

bit of theater and a bit of gambling."

"Interesting," he said. "However, I did not bring any cards."

"Nor I, and all the better for you." She looked at him through her lashes, then flashed an impish grin right before she tossed

an olive in the air and caught it between her teeth.

He felt a grin tug at the corner of his lips, enjoying her easy manner. She was a woman comfortable in her own skin, and he

liked that. More than he ought. And when she sat back amidst a ripple of seafoam ruffles, she appeared every inch the siren

who could lure careless men to their deaths... especially when the tip of her pink tongue darted out to lick the salty

brine from her lips.

Oscar shifted and thought it best to change the subject to something less stimulating than the games they could play.

"You seemed familiar with the abbey. How many times have you been there in your disguise?"

"A few," she said, nibbling on the end of a broad celery stalk in a way that made him forget what he was eating. "They are forever in want of servants because no one wants to work for three demanding mistresses. So it is simple to blend in. Even though one might imagine wearing an eyepatch would only gain notice, actually the opposite is true."

"Because no one wants to look directly at a person with a disfigurement. It makes them uncomfortable."

She pointed her celery at him. "Ah, so you've worn one, as well."

"A time or two."

She smiled at him as if delighting in their shared secret, her eyes bright. And for an instant, he had the compulsion to share

more secrets with her.

He wouldn't, of course. He wasn't an idiot. But the mere desire to do so filled him with a sudden restlessness, tightening

like a fist in his gut.

Instantly suspicious of the sensation, he looked down to his half-empty plate. Had the roast pheasant come from his basket

or hers?

Not wanting to take any chances, he decided to drink more wine instead. But when he offered to fill her glass, she put a hand

over it and shook her head before reclining gracefully on one elbow.

Turning her face toward the sky, she closed her eyes and sighed contentedly.

He wasn't certain if it was the third glass of wine, the gentle summer breeze kissed with the essence of freshly baked biscuits,

or the way the dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves overhead and brushed the tips of Honoria's golden lashes, but

a sense of peace fell over him, dispelling that momentary restlessness.

"I saw you with the dowager viscountess yesterday," she said after a while.

Oscar was so at ease, sitting with his arm lazily propped on his bent knee and distractedly comparing the color of her lips

to the last of the wine in his glass, that he didn't take exception to her spying. "Lurking in shadows, Signore?"

" You are far more inclined to dwell under cover of darkness, I'm sure."

"So you were hiding in the open, then?"

Her mouth quirked at the corner, and she issued a nonchalant wave with her stalk of celery. "I might know of a few secret

passageways. What? You did say we were alike."

"Did I?"

She leveled him with a dark look. "Don't tell me you've forgotten that as well."

Of course Oscar remembered what he'd said in his bedchamber yesterday. A mind like his remembered everything. But he'd spent

so much of his life redirecting statements of fact that evasion came as second nature.

He was always playing the game, reading his opponent, assessing their cards. And yet, as he sat on the opposite side of the

blanket and saw those blue eyes harden to frozen pools, he felt a tug-of-war begin between his need to be ruthless and his

enjoyment of their unusual camaraderie.

"I actually have an exceptional memory," he admitted. That was something only two other people—his mother and Cardew—knew

about him.

It wasn't his fault that Honoria took it the wrong way.

"Except for when it comes to Paris," she said cooly.

Disliking the icy wall building between them, he reached across and stole her celery.

"I beg your pardon!" she huffed. But when he took a large bite out of it, she rolled her eyes. "You are such a cad."

Seeing a reluctant twitch at the corner of her mouth, he felt better. Before he eased back again, he tossed the remainder

into the hamper so she couldn't torment him each time the stalk disappeared between her lips.

"Is that what you saw yesterday in her sitting room? A cad?" he heard himself ask and wished he could swallow down the words

along with the last of his wine.

Just before he'd visited the dowager viscountess, he'd learned that she'd suffered an apoplexy and no longer had the use of the right side of her body. He hadn't known what reaction, if any, to expect when the nurse had introduced him. But it certainly hadn't been the smile he'd received or the tears shimmering in her eyes.

A flood of guilt and panic swept through him. Responding to the animosity from the widows had come as second nature to him.

But utter unspoken joy? He had no idea how to react. The last time he'd witnessed an emotion so raw and tender had been when

his mother was alive.

Therefore, Oscar did the only thing he could think to do. He'd reached out and smoothed the tears away, her flesh soft and

papery as vellum beneath the gentle brush of his thumb. In response, she'd lifted her good hand to cover his, her eyes still

shining in a way that made his throat tight.

Uncomfortable, he'd wanted to leave. But because she'd been in that room and left to stare out of a window for untold hours

without anyone other than her nurse for company, he didn't have the heart to abandon her.

So he'd slipped the book of verse from his pocket—the only thing his father had left behind—then sat on the window ledge and

read to her about Awildian Palace.

"Actually," Honoria said quietly, "I thought you were sweet to her. And patient in a way that many gentlemen wouldn't know

how to be."

"My mother suffered an illness. During her final months, she was confined to a sickbed, the life slowly draining from her,"

he admitted, regret tightening his throat. "When I looked at Lady Vandemere, I imagined all the years she'd lived before and

all the suffering she'd endured after losing four sons and a husband. Therefore, I chose to respect the life she once had,

and the one she still clings to."

The instant he finished, he wanted to kick himself.

Damn it all! She had done this to him... using her wiles, putting him at ease, loosening his tongue. And he'd played right

into her hands.

Overhead, the leaves rustled with mocking laughter, and he felt the muscles in his jaw clench. If she dared to utter a word of mockery or to use this information for her own purposes, she would soon learn how ruthless he could be.

When she gave no response, he scowled in her direction and saw that she was turned away, her face tipped to the clouds.

"My apologies," he bit out, the words like gravel between his teeth. "I didn't intend to bore you with my—"

His words broke off the instant he saw her profile and the tear that clung to the tawny strands of her bottom lashes. He didn't

know why a breath fell out of him or why that peculiar restlessness returned, striking hard like a fist in the center of his

chest. But he couldn't stop himself from reaching out to turn her face toward his.

She glared at him, tried to pull his hand away from her chin as he smoothed that single tear away. "It was a speck of dust,

nothing more. Don't you dare harbor any thoughts that your words affected me whatsoever. You are nothing more than a blackmailer

and a scoundrel, and your story earned you no favors from my quarter."

"There you go again"—he sighed with an insouciant air as he lowered his hand and leaned back on his elbow—"talking about favors

when you really mean kisses . My dear, I do believe you are obsessed with the very idea."

" Ha! I wouldn't kiss you if you were the last man on earth. You are like an apple that rots from the core out. It may look perfectly

tempting on the outside, but once you take a bite, you're sure to come back with half a worm in your teeth."

The desire—no, the bloody need —to slide his hand to her nape and draw her mouth to his was almost unbearable. But he'd be damned if he would reveal any

more of his cards to her.

So he goaded her instead. "Then you admit it. You find me tempting."

She stood and brushed out her skirts with swift, agitated swipes as if they were on fire. Then she crossed her arms beneath her delectable breasts and tapped her foot. "I should like to return home now."

"And I should like you to pay me ￡2,000. Shall we see which one of us wins this hand?"

On a growl that would put a lioness to shame, she turned on her heel and began to stalk down the hill.

He crossed his legs at the ankle. Before she could get too far, he called out, "Oh, Miss Hartley?"

She spun around, her brows arched as if expecting him to concede, apologize or do whatever it was that an actual gentleman

would do.

He waited a beat, ensuring that she was good and vexed. "Before you send the servants to collect the hampers, would you happen

to have any more biscuits?"

He'd never seen a pair of eyes turn the color of a blue flame. But hers did. Incinerating him to ash with a single glance,

right before she stormed down the hill.

Oscar could easily catch her.

Instead, he linked his hands behind his head and decided to call his opponent's bluff.