the shadows and waited for her to reach the well-lit corner, where she would turn and disappear. He swallowed hard as she hesitated, glancing back over her shoulder as if she still could not quite believe what had happened tonight.
He drew a breath, willing his body to settle down.
He had left an ugly impression on her the last time they’d been together in Monk’s Huntley. It killed him, remembering how he must have looked to her. Helpless. Humiliated. Worth less than an animal being sold.
Part of him had never wanted to see her again. The other part desperately wanted her to see what he’d become.
When he fell asleep later tonight, it would not be locked in a solitary cell, nursing a hard blow to the head. He wouldn’t crawl through a tunnel to reach his rooms. He was his own man. He was free. And if he wanted to stay up until daybreak thinking about the woman he had kissed, he would do so.
But for all of his accomplishments, he was still a thief. If he wanted her, he would have to steal her from another man.
Chapter 8
A unt Francesca, stubborn beldam that she was, had insisted that she felt well enough to stay to have pastry with the other matrons and that she would go home with Godfrey and Violet.
Sir Godfrey had stared at his betrothed and his fencing master on the dance floor and could hardly believe the compliments he heard. Guests seemed to be comparing their improvised country reel to everything from a Hungarian courtship ritual to a pagan Highland dance. He half expected someone to arrange Fenton’s swords across the floor for this highly . . . Well, Godfrey wasn’t sure how to describe the dance.
Improper to ignore the music and make up one’s own steps at a party of this importance. Only the lower classes would dance like . . . He gaped at Violet, her head thrown back, her laughter unaffected, those dark curls escaping her pearl comb to caress her white skin. Suggestive.
Her behavior suggested many things to Sir Godfrey. None of which he cared to ponder. Violet was virtue incarnate.
And Fenton? From what Godfrey knew of him, Fenton led a decent life.
He insisted that his pupils study hard and avoid trouble. Those who did not adhere to the code could not attend the academy. He was Godfrey’s secret hero. He was the strong but gentle brother Godfrey had always wanted in place of the two stupid brutes who throughout his youth had bashed him around for sport.
But that was in the past. The brutes could kiss his rump. Godfrey anticipated that his business would double in the weeks before the ton left London for their country estates. After Fenton’s well-received spectacle of sword mastery, the sales of lanterns and walking canes that Godfrey had stocked in the emporium would increase. He had given away all his cards to the well-heeled philanthropists who had asked about his affairs. A news reporter had even introduced himself and promised a nice mention of Godfrey’s arcade in the paper.
The dance was almost over. Godfrey felt as if he were aging by the minute. The way they danced . . . It just wasn’t done. The manner in which Violet and Fenton moved. Goodness. It went beyond insouciant. It bordered on dangerous.
What if one of them tripped the other and fell? Godfrey had practically put out his back performing with that lantern tonight. Where did Fenton find the energy to dance like that?
In another half hour or so he would be comforting Violet over her aunt’s failing health and making plans to take over the country manor in Monk’s Huntley. Godfrey could not imagine himself living in an old pile that faced a graveyard, but it would do for Violet and their children on the occasional holiday. The deed was paid off. And Violet did seem to harbor a strange attachment to the place.
“We can’t sell the house, Godfrey,” she had told him repeatedly. “Not until you see it.”
He felt an embarrassing fondness for her. Other people admired her, too. He noticed quizzing glasses raised to
He drew a breath, willing his body to settle down.
He had left an ugly impression on her the last time they’d been together in Monk’s Huntley. It killed him, remembering how he must have looked to her. Helpless. Humiliated. Worth less than an animal being sold.
Part of him had never wanted to see her again. The other part desperately wanted her to see what he’d become.
When he fell asleep later tonight, it would not be locked in a solitary cell, nursing a hard blow to the head. He wouldn’t crawl through a tunnel to reach his rooms. He was his own man. He was free. And if he wanted to stay up until daybreak thinking about the woman he had kissed, he would do so.
But for all of his accomplishments, he was still a thief. If he wanted her, he would have to steal her from another man.
Chapter 8
A unt Francesca, stubborn beldam that she was, had insisted that she felt well enough to stay to have pastry with the other matrons and that she would go home with Godfrey and Violet.
Sir Godfrey had stared at his betrothed and his fencing master on the dance floor and could hardly believe the compliments he heard. Guests seemed to be comparing their improvised country reel to everything from a Hungarian courtship ritual to a pagan Highland dance. He half expected someone to arrange Fenton’s swords across the floor for this highly . . . Well, Godfrey wasn’t sure how to describe the dance.
Improper to ignore the music and make up one’s own steps at a party of this importance. Only the lower classes would dance like . . . He gaped at Violet, her head thrown back, her laughter unaffected, those dark curls escaping her pearl comb to caress her white skin. Suggestive.
Her behavior suggested many things to Sir Godfrey. None of which he cared to ponder. Violet was virtue incarnate.
And Fenton? From what Godfrey knew of him, Fenton led a decent life.
He insisted that his pupils study hard and avoid trouble. Those who did not adhere to the code could not attend the academy. He was Godfrey’s secret hero. He was the strong but gentle brother Godfrey had always wanted in place of the two stupid brutes who throughout his youth had bashed him around for sport.
But that was in the past. The brutes could kiss his rump. Godfrey anticipated that his business would double in the weeks before the ton left London for their country estates. After Fenton’s well-received spectacle of sword mastery, the sales of lanterns and walking canes that Godfrey had stocked in the emporium would increase. He had given away all his cards to the well-heeled philanthropists who had asked about his affairs. A news reporter had even introduced himself and promised a nice mention of Godfrey’s arcade in the paper.
The dance was almost over. Godfrey felt as if he were aging by the minute. The way they danced . . . It just wasn’t done. The manner in which Violet and Fenton moved. Goodness. It went beyond insouciant. It bordered on dangerous.
What if one of them tripped the other and fell? Godfrey had practically put out his back performing with that lantern tonight. Where did Fenton find the energy to dance like that?
In another half hour or so he would be comforting Violet over her aunt’s failing health and making plans to take over the country manor in Monk’s Huntley. Godfrey could not imagine himself living in an old pile that faced a graveyard, but it would do for Violet and their children on the occasional holiday. The deed was paid off. And Violet did seem to harbor a strange attachment to the place.
“We can’t sell the house, Godfrey,” she had told him repeatedly. “Not until you see it.”
He felt an embarrassing fondness for her. Other people admired her, too. He noticed quizzing glasses raised to
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