She furrowed her brow. Her hands drifted down to her sides. “Your face is flushed. You are not well. Let’s put you to bed.” Turning, she placed the comb and scissors on the desk, and when she reached for him, he captured her hand. Her eyes flared as she locked gazes with him.
“Miss Darlington, I’m well. I swear it to you.” He stroked his thumb across her knuckles. “This is difficult—being close to you. I find you very tempting, but I promised to behave as a gentleman, and I intend to keep my word.”
“Oh.” She eased her hand from his light grasp and backed toward the desk to perch on the edge. Her mouth opened and closed. He hadn’t suspected she would ever be at a loss for words, but he appeared to have caught her by surprise. After a while, she regained composure. “May I ask a question, Mr. Vistoire?”
He inclined his head.
“You mentioned plans to travel to New Orleans. Do you have a home there?”
“I do.” He settled against the seatback, more at ease now that she’d recovered her ability to speak.
She tipped her head to the side and regarded him with tiny creases marring her brow. “You don’t sound like any American I have ever encountered.”
“French is the predominant language. Besides, I am Creole.”
“Creole.” She drew out the word, rolling it around on her tongue. “What is Creole?”
“It means my ancestors settled New Orleans. My family has been there for a century.” He held his head higher. “I am anxious to return. I’ve been away from home a long time.”
“How much longer will you be in London?”
“I will book passage to New Orleans as soon as I leave Wedmore House. My sister needs me, and I have responsibilities for a ward, my young cousin.”
“I see. I thought perhaps if we met outside Wedmore House, we could pretend this never happened. We might even strike up a friendship.”
He didn’t try to rein in a pleased grin. “Surely you aren’t developing a tender spot for me. Are you, Miss Darlington?”
She wrinkled her nose and a corner of her lips twitched as she fought back a smile. “You really are as mad as a March hare. I’m quite certain I despise you.”
He laughed, realizing she teased him. If it were possible to remain in England, he would be pleased for them to become better acquainted. He suspected they would get on very well if she could truly forgive him.
“I am sorry for the strain I placed on you and your family this week. I had a moment of weakness. I am deeply ashamed of my behavior.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “People make mistakes. Thank you for keeping your word and behaving yourself.”
Her gaze lingered on him as she twirled a loose strand of silky hair that had fallen from her coiffeur. Her unselfconscious boldness was intoxicating, and it was all he could do to keep from pulling her onto his lap and ravishing her.
“What will you do now that you’ve abandoned your wicked ways, Mr. Vistoire?”
“Oh, I’m not giving up my wicked ways,” he said with a wink. “Just breaking into homes.”
Her eyes shone brightly when she smiled, warming him from the inside out
“I’ll send Joy in with a razor so you can shave.”
Still smiling, she whisked from the room
Seven
Regina ran through the drills Uncle Charles had taught her, punching the wall mounted sandbag in patterns of three. High, high, low. High, low, high. Low, low, high. Hit after hit without pause. But no matter how many times she struck the bag, she couldn’t erase the sensation of Mr. Vistoire’s thumb having stroked across her skin.
Her heart banged against her ribs as much from the man as from her exercise. The memory of his smoldering eyes, raw with desire, refused to vacate her mind. She drew in a choppy breath and tried to deny her own excitement, but her body was more honest. Every inch of her was awake and tingling as if she had a sort of itch that she didn’t know how to scratch.
She was also aware of how ridiculous her reaction was. Mr. Vistoire would find any woman foolish enough to enter his bedchamber tempting. He was a man, after all, and a self-proclaimed rake. He wouldn’t be particular about his choice of bed partner. Yet, when she’d stood close to trim his hair, he had wanted her. Her stomach fluttered in acknowledgment of the truth.
Xavier Vistoire was dangerous to her future. A simple caress had given birth to a rather pesky question. Could she remain content never knowing the pleasure of being loved by a man?
She dropped her hands to her sides with a loud exhale. “Oh, what does it matter?”
Spinsters did not think on such matters, and even though she wasn’t quite on the shelf, that was her aim. It was best not to indulge her curiosity. She would be smart to avoid him the rest of his stay.
Unfortunately, no one had tended to him since Evangeline delivered a supper tray to his chamber a couple of hours earlier, and Regina was the only one home. She’d managed to beg off attending the opera with her aunt and sisters, but she wouldn’t be allowed to bow out of evening entertainments much longer. Aunt Beatrice had given her the sour-faced look when she’d asked to be excused that afternoon.
It was a well-known fact among Wedmore House residents that tight, puckered lips from Auntie signaled unpleasant things to come. While she was a cheerful companion most of the time, one didn’t want to be on the receiving end of a lecture from Auntie. She spoke her mind freely, and even though she was never cruel, she often had a lot to say. She could hold court an hour at a time. If she ever learned about Mr. Vistoire, Regina and her sisters would be gray before they heard the end of it.
Yes, an intelligent young woman would stay away from a man who excited her imagination.
The house creaked as it settled, and she resumed her drills, wishing wisdom wasn’t such a boring virtue. She pummeled the bag as fast as she could, striking in patterns of three and tossing in an elbow to break the monotony. When the men’s shirt she’d donned grew damp and clung to her, she ceased her exercise, leaning one hand against the wall and panting.
“He doesn’t appear to be talking.” Mr. Vistoire’s voice cut through the quiet. She jumped and swung toward the doorway. He was leaning against the doorjamb with his arms casually crossed and a wry grin on his cleanly shaven face. “Would you like me to take a go at him?”
“Pardon?”
He pushed off the doorjamb and nodded toward the sandbag. “I thought you were trying to extract information from the chap. Beatings seem to be the English’s preferred method of loosening one’s lips.”
She couldn’t refrain from returning his smile as he neared. Without his beard, his defined jaw was no longer hidden, and his nose—even in its imperfection—appeared regal. “And how do the Creole loosen one’s lips?” she asked.
“The right way, Miss Darlington.” He stopped in front of her, so close she could feel his body heat. Suddenly, she couldn’t catch her breath for a different reason. Xavier Vistoire was a stunningly handsome man in a way her countrymen were not.
“What is the right way to extract secrets?”
He leaned close to her ear but seemed to take pains not to touch her. “With kisses,” he whispered.
The wisp of his breath danced over her skin. She shivered.
“Oh.” Her voice was thready. “I can imagine how that might be effective under certain circumstances.”
His self-satisfied grin caused her knees to wobble. “It’s a trick handed down from my French ancestors.”
When he withdrew completely, she fought the impulse to grab his jacket and pull him close again. Jacket? She blinked and stepped back to run her gaze over his attire. “You are dressed as if you are leaving.”
He shrugged, his smile seemingly tinged with regret. “It’s time for me to go.”
Earlier, she’d thought she wanted to hurry him on his way, but now the thought of him leaving caused her to feel slightly adrift.
“Perhaps you should recuperate a while longer. You were only able to leave your bed today.�
� Yes, that was exactly what he needed. More rest. She took his arm to guide him back to his room, but he resisted.
He covered her hand, the heat of his skin against hers searing. “Miss Darlington, I am grateful to you and your sisters for your compassion and care, but it is best for everyone if I go. I’m sure you would like to resume your life.”
Until the Season ended, she had no life of her own. Returning to the marriage mart was a waste of time, and dealing with loathsome men like Lord Geoffrey was making her miserable. She’d already chosen her path, and it did not involve marriage or leaving her kin.
“Resume my life,” she muttered, bitterness seeping into her words.
“Oui. You should have more time for this.” He gestured to the sandbag and then her trousers. “Uh, what is this, exactly?”
Her face flushed as she considered what he must think of her dressed in men’s clothing and glistening from exertion. Until the tussle with Lord Geoffrey, she’d kept her unladylike pursuits private. But Mr. Vistoire wasn’t glaring at her with disdain as Lord Geoffrey had done. He appeared genuinely interested.
“Wing Chun,” she said. “My uncle learned it while traveling in the South Orient. He has practiced the ancient warrior arts since before I was born.”
“Fascinating. And he allowed you to learn? That is rather unconventional.”
Regina chuckled at his diplomatic response. “Yes, that does describe Uncle Charles. He taught me himself. For protection.”
Mr. Vistoire’s eyes narrowed. “Protection from whom? Did someone try to hurt you? The bastard best have swung from the gallows.”
She shook her head, lowering it to hide evidence of the flush of pleasure on her cheeks. “No one wished to hurt me. I had an active imagination as a child. After our parents were killed, I was afraid the murderers would come for my sisters and me. Uncle Charles tried to reassure me, but I refused to believe we were safe, so he taught me what to do if anyone did mean to do me harm.”
“Your uncle sounds like a wise man.”
Her head shot up to determine if he was laughing at her, but he simply regarded her with his intense green gaze. She’d made the mistake of confiding in her uncle’s godson once when they were children. Crispin had scoffed and called her ignorant.
The blackguards are across the Irish Sea. They cannot walk on water, and they haven’t a pot to piss in. How are they going to pay for passage on a ship?
Uncle Charles must have overheard them talking, because he’d made Crispin do extra drills while she watched and corrected his mistakes. A hard pill to swallow for a boy on the cusp of manhood. Neither of them had held a grudge against the other, and they had been back on friendly terms the next day.
She smiled at Mr. Vistoire for reminding her to be grateful for her unique upbringing. “Uncle Charles is wise without letting on he is trying. When reassurance was ineffective, he gave me something better: control. I didn’t need to rely on someone else to save me when I could save myself. My fears went away as soon as I knew what to do if those men ever did come for my sisters and me.”
“Your uncle possesses the best type of wisdom, it seems.” He smiled, too, and nodded toward the sandbag. “I’ve never heard of Wing Chun. It must be a well-kept secret.”
She turned back toward the bag when he approached it. “You aren’t going to kiss it, are you?” she teased.
He laughed before lightly punching it and glancing over his shoulder at her. “If you refuse to tell me more, perhaps I’ll have to kiss the secrets out of you.”
Her lips parted, but she couldn’t find her voice. The only secret he was likely to discover was that she wanted him to kiss her. She blinked, breaking eye contact, and eased away a couple of steps.
“It is said Wing Chun was created by a woman, an abbess, who came upon a white crane fighting a snake. The goal is to deflect an attack and strike hard when your attacker can be caught by surprise, so you may escape.”
Fittingly enough, the legend said the abbess Ng Mui trained a young woman to fight in the ways of Wing Chun in order to defeat a local warlord who was trying to force her into marriage. It seemed overbearing lords were not unique to modern London. Only a young lady’s privilege to challenge the ne’re-do-wells had gone by the wayside.
Mr. Vistoire held out his hand as if requesting to escort her to a ballroom dance floor. “I would love a demonstration, if you please.”
She hesitated half a breath before placing her hand in his and allowing him to draw her toward the middle of the room. When they were a safe distance from the wall, he dropped her hand and squared his body in front of her. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
Hold me. Kiss me. “Er...” She captured her bottom lip between her teeth and tried to focus on what she was supposed to be doing.
His mouth slanted up on one side. “It just occurred to me to ask. Am I the white crane or the snake?”
She snapped to attention. He wanted to see how her training worked in a real situation, not stand by as she fantasized about him. “You are the snake, sir. Try to strike me.”
“Strike you? But you are a lady.”
“Or try to grab me.”
His sculpted jaw hardened. “I would never hurt a woman.”
“I know, Mr. Vistoire, but not every man has honor. If you wish for a demonstration, you must pretend to be something you are not.”
“You say this with the confidence of a woman who has encountered such men.”
She shrugged. “Uncle Charles taught me to judge a man on what my instincts tell me and not by his station, appearance, or promises. This advice has served me well, and my encounters with such men have been rare.”
“Even one time is too many. I’m afraid I must insist you enlist your uncle’s godson to escort you about Town from now on.”
“You are not in a position to insist on anything, sir.” A warm tingling sensation expanded in her chest despite her protest. It was silly to want him to care for her when he would be on a ship embarking by high tide tomorrow, sailing toward a place she would never see.
Nevertheless, she savored the possibility that he might hold some affection for her. That he might remember her fondly through the coming years and wonder about her from time to time. It seemed only fair since she suspected she would be doing the same when it came to him. “Do you wish for a demonstration? If so, try to strike me.”
He didn’t offer any more arguments and assumed a fighting stance. Focusing on his torso, she watched for hints of movement before he reached for her. She swept his arm to her left, knocking him off balance, and drove her right hand toward his face, stopping short of gouging his eye with her thumb.
He flinched. “Faith! You are quick. Are you certain you aren’t the snake?”
She laughed and released his arm. “You didn’t commit, Mr. Vistoire. You are too gentlemanly to pose a threat, but I can protect myself when I must.”
“Perhaps.”
He poised himself to attack. She could tell from his stance that he’d had training in boxing. His body was positioned at a slight diagonal, his weight evenly distributed between both legs, and his dominant hand in back. He struck and she deflected his blow again. As they continued to spar, he grew bolder, throwing more than one punch at a time. She fanned her arms, each move flowing into the other. It was all very similar to a dance in her mind, although she was more graceful when practicing Wing Chun than she was dancing a waltz.
They were both breathing heavily when they eventually stopped. The curls around Mr. Vistoire’s face were damp. “My confidence in your ability to protect yourself has increased,” he said, “but I would still prefer you have an escort.”
“I will consider your request.”
He stepped toward her and brushed a strand of hair that had slipped from the knot on top of her head and moved it behind her ear. His thumb lingered on her cheek. “I am forever in your debt, mademoiselle. Merci.”
Cradling her face, he brushed his lips against her cheek then kissed her
other one. She exhaled and turned toward his kiss just as he drew back. They stared at one another with lips parted. His breath stirred the hair at her temple, creating a delicious tickle that traveled down her back. His hand still cupped her face.
“You are not deflecting me.” The husky sound of his voice competed with the drumming in her ears.
“I know,” she whispered.
“You promised to protect yourself.” His fingers slid to her nape, and he gently pulled her toward him. He flashed a rueful smile before pressing his lips to her forehead. She sank against him and his other arm circled her waist. He held her a long time, their jagged breaths intermingling.
“I am not a man to deny himself,” he murmured. “Resisting you is taking all the strength I possess.”
When he released her, she barely held in her cry of protest. “Stay safe, Miss Darlington. The world is a kinder place with you here.”
As he walked away, she knew she’d been wrong about avoiding him. She wasn’t any better off for having never experienced his kiss.
Eight
Xavier reluctantly crossed Wedmore House’s threshold to be swallowed up by the murky night. Miss Darlington closed the door, and he stopped on the walk to listen for the turning of the lock. When the telltale clank sounded, he smiled. She wasn’t abidingly stubborn at least.
He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the dank London air, and tried to get his bearings in the fog. The hour was growing late for decent folk. Lingering with Miss Darlington might have cost Xavier a chance to catch his former landlady before she retired for bed. Nevertheless, he couldn’t have slipped away without expressing his gratitude and saying good-bye to the kind young woman who’d cared for him this past week. Unfortunately, once he was in Miss Darlington’s presence again, his drive to go had wavered.
He glanced back at the four-story town house with only one window aglow. Miss Darlington was likely curling up with a book and her rascally dog to await her family’s return. The pull to rejoin her was a strong pulsing in his chest.
Secrets to a Gentleman's Heart (Uncle Charlie's Angels Book 1) Page 6
