systematically visited them. You have a sense of…tactics. I appreciate that.”
She tapped a gloved finger against her lips. “You keep saying that I found nothing,” she mused. “You’re wrong. I discovered that the handbills weren’t being printed in Leicester. As there’s only one possible suspect who is not a native, I think I’ve made quite an advance.”
He blinked. He had the sense that he was lost in those quiet gray eyes, unable to look away from her. He was a duke. She was a—what had she called herself? A half-blind near-spinster. It shouldn’t even have been a fair fight.
“You think,” she said, “because you’ve identified one purpose of mine, that you know what I’m doing. But this inquiry among the printers was something of a discovered attack.”
Standing this close to her, he could begin to see the difference. She was still looking down, still acting shy and quiet so that anyone more than three paces away would have no idea what she was saying. But there was a little more excitement in her hands. Her lips twitched, on the verge of smiling.
“What do you mean, a discovered attack?”
“A tactical term.” She touched her fingertips together. “When you make a move, you do two things. First, you move forward—and the space you now occupy has value. But you also vacate the spot where you once were, exposing your enemy’s flank to longer-ranged attacks. Be aware of where you are, and the space you’ll leave behind.”
“That’s not a sense of tactics you have,” he said, blinking down at her. “That sounds like actual tactical training. Where would a half-blind near-spinster acquire that?”
Where would any woman get that, for that matter? But Miss Pursling didn’t seem to be rattled.
“I have collected a stack of papers that will show you to be the culprit. What have you accomplished, Your Grace? You’ve pretended to flirt with me.”
He blinked, utterly startled. She wasn’t looking at him. Of course she wasn’t looking at him. She studied the pavement beneath her feet as if she were just another pale, downtrodden woman, unable to look him in the eyes.
“Pretending?” He felt almost dangerous. “You don’t meet my eyes. You whisper your clever responses. You shy away from any hint that you’re an intelligent woman. You’re the one who pretends, my dear.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “That—that is just conformity to the pressures of society—”
“Is it? Look up, Minnie. Look in my eyes. Let everyone on this street see what we both know is true. You’re not deferring to me. You’re challenging me. Look up.”
She didn’t. Her head remained stubbornly bowed before him. He wanted to grab her and shake her. He wanted to tilt her chin up and force her to gaze in his eyes. He wanted—
He wanted a great many things after that, none of which he was going to get from her by force.
“I’m not pretending to flirt with you,” he said instead. “There’s no pretense in it. I want you. God, I want you.”
She let out a little gasp and then—almost involuntarily—she looked up.
For just one moment, he saw something he thought was not pretense—a hopeless yearning in the way her face tilted toward his, a flutter in her ragged exhalation. Her lips parted, and she seemed suddenly, devastatingly beautiful.
But she shut her eyes and looked down again. Her breaths came a little louder; her fists clenched at her side. She shook her head. “Lucky you,” she said bitterly. “Lucky you that you can plan and think and plot without pretense. That you can want openly, that you don’t have to stuff it all inside yourself to molder. Lucky you that you can lift your eyes to the sky without singeing your wings. Lucky you that you can consider the future without terror.”
Her hands were beginning to shake.
“I have looked high.” Her voice was an urgent whisper. “And I have fallen farther than you can imagine. So don’t you lecture me. All I want is to
She tapped a gloved finger against her lips. “You keep saying that I found nothing,” she mused. “You’re wrong. I discovered that the handbills weren’t being printed in Leicester. As there’s only one possible suspect who is not a native, I think I’ve made quite an advance.”
He blinked. He had the sense that he was lost in those quiet gray eyes, unable to look away from her. He was a duke. She was a—what had she called herself? A half-blind near-spinster. It shouldn’t even have been a fair fight.
“You think,” she said, “because you’ve identified one purpose of mine, that you know what I’m doing. But this inquiry among the printers was something of a discovered attack.”
Standing this close to her, he could begin to see the difference. She was still looking down, still acting shy and quiet so that anyone more than three paces away would have no idea what she was saying. But there was a little more excitement in her hands. Her lips twitched, on the verge of smiling.
“What do you mean, a discovered attack?”
“A tactical term.” She touched her fingertips together. “When you make a move, you do two things. First, you move forward—and the space you now occupy has value. But you also vacate the spot where you once were, exposing your enemy’s flank to longer-ranged attacks. Be aware of where you are, and the space you’ll leave behind.”
“That’s not a sense of tactics you have,” he said, blinking down at her. “That sounds like actual tactical training. Where would a half-blind near-spinster acquire that?”
Where would any woman get that, for that matter? But Miss Pursling didn’t seem to be rattled.
“I have collected a stack of papers that will show you to be the culprit. What have you accomplished, Your Grace? You’ve pretended to flirt with me.”
He blinked, utterly startled. She wasn’t looking at him. Of course she wasn’t looking at him. She studied the pavement beneath her feet as if she were just another pale, downtrodden woman, unable to look him in the eyes.
“Pretending?” He felt almost dangerous. “You don’t meet my eyes. You whisper your clever responses. You shy away from any hint that you’re an intelligent woman. You’re the one who pretends, my dear.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “That—that is just conformity to the pressures of society—”
“Is it? Look up, Minnie. Look in my eyes. Let everyone on this street see what we both know is true. You’re not deferring to me. You’re challenging me. Look up.”
She didn’t. Her head remained stubbornly bowed before him. He wanted to grab her and shake her. He wanted to tilt her chin up and force her to gaze in his eyes. He wanted—
He wanted a great many things after that, none of which he was going to get from her by force.
“I’m not pretending to flirt with you,” he said instead. “There’s no pretense in it. I want you. God, I want you.”
She let out a little gasp and then—almost involuntarily—she looked up.
For just one moment, he saw something he thought was not pretense—a hopeless yearning in the way her face tilted toward his, a flutter in her ragged exhalation. Her lips parted, and she seemed suddenly, devastatingly beautiful.
But she shut her eyes and looked down again. Her breaths came a little louder; her fists clenched at her side. She shook her head. “Lucky you,” she said bitterly. “Lucky you that you can plan and think and plot without pretense. That you can want openly, that you don’t have to stuff it all inside yourself to molder. Lucky you that you can lift your eyes to the sky without singeing your wings. Lucky you that you can consider the future without terror.”
Her hands were beginning to shake.
“I have looked high.” Her voice was an urgent whisper. “And I have fallen farther than you can imagine. So don’t you lecture me. All I want is to
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