His stubble had tones of red, and under the short scruff, a seamed scar ran down his jaw.

“You’re both fair exhausted,” he said. “I’ll cook. You watch and learn. This…” He put a finger to the center of her forehead— “very deft mind needs only one lesson, Jenny. Keep up or you’ll risk being sacked.”

The touch of his finger sent a spark through her, like a small strike of lightning she’d read about in one of Mr. Faraday’s experiments, rippling warmth like the rings in a pool where a rock has dropped, and she was in the pool, not breathing. Behind Fox’s back, Jenny covered her mouth.

With that, her breath and her brain returned. Before she could push him away, he’d disentangled himself and stalked to a door. Her hand went to her chest but she quickly dropped it.

Jenny’s lips twisted and quivered.

“Stop smirking,” Perry hissed, “or I’ll send you back on your own to London.”

Jenny shook her head. “Yes, miss. But you know they’ll be searching for you, and if you send me back alone, your father’s man Kincaid will lock me up and put me on bread and water until I spill.”

“Kincaid would do no such thing.” Fox returned with his pots, his face bland.

But he’d heard every word, calculating that she had escaped, that she also didn’t belong here. He would use it against her in the battle to come.

They ate in the kitchen, all three of them together. It was novel and cozy, and strangely liberating. Fox had not asked her dining preferences, he’d simply taken three plates from the matched set of crockery and set them upon the servants’ table. When Jenny opened her mouth to protest, it took but a look from him to quell her. The girl had fussed nervously with her food the whole meal. Her discomfort left Perry with much to think about.

As had Fox. He’d spoken altogether more words that night than she’d heard in all his months at Cransdall. He’d explained all the steps of making a stew, and covered all that he knew about everything from skinning game to omelet-making. She had learned new skills in her plan for independence.

Once Father had her removed from the cottage, where would she go? Not back to London, and not to Cransdall, nor to any of her brothers’ homes. She had money, but stretching it would mean more eating with servants, and she couldn’t drag Jenny along for an extended adventure. It wouldn’t be fair to the girl, who was rising in life on the only path open to her.

Jenny stood and began gathering dishes. Perry stood also and reached for a plate.

“No, miss,” Jenny said. “I know how to wash dishes and how to put up what’s left of the food. Rest yourself and I’ll get the kettle for your tea. It should be hot now.”

She remained seated. Fox sprawled blandly, like a well-sated footman quite at his leisure. That is, he not so much sprawled as his considerably long legs had nowhere to go but far out in front of him, and his long torso fit awkwardly against the slatted chair. It was hard to be so tall, and didn’t she know it. He must be terribly uncomfortable.

And they needed to talk, away from Jenny’s ears.

The tea they’d brought had kept dry. She busied herself with the pretty pitcher Jenny found. “You’ve no brandy, Mr. Fox?”

“Not here.”

“Will you have tea with me?”

He nodded tersely. She could see by the firmness around his mouth, he didn’t want tea.

“You’d prefer coffee, wouldn’t you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t bring any. Come along then. Jenny, you’ll find us in that parlor.”

Fox reached for the tray she was holding, and she pulled it away.

“If you would carry our bags instead?”

Fox watched the swish of her gown as she climbed the stairs. This one, a fine light blue lawn sprigged with pink flowers, would be sheer enough if it weren’t too dry to cling. Juggling the tray in her hands, she clutched her skirts high enough that he could see her trim ankles and calves in the slippers she’d exchanged for her boots. They were dainty, heelless little things that would have made a smaller woman look like a child instead of a lithe opera dancer or Aphrodite’s apprentice. She navigated the stairs with that tray nimbly. Lady Perry had finally learned to manage those long lovely legs.

He paused on the step and juggled the maid’s valise and Perpetua’s larger bag. He’d best keep his wits in his head instead of his breeches.

At the top of the stairs, she rested the tray on the banister and let her skirts drop. Eyes downcast, pink touched her cheeks in the gray light. Aye, she’d seen his grinning. He took pity on her and led her into the parlor, lighting a lamp while she readied the tea.

For now, he would drink the polite swill out of courtesy. He had pushed her hard tonight and she deserved that much. Once she was tucked into her mother’s room, he’d uncork a fresh bottle and begin burning those incriminating sketchbooks.

She poured, as stiff-backed as the Duchess who’d wanted him in her bed. Lady Shaldon’s invitation had saved him from that awful commission. At Cransdall, he’d found himself in a home full of humor, great love, and one long-legged girl budding into womanhood. Perry had fancied herself in love with him, at least for the first week of his stay, until his jabs and irritations had set her at odds with him. It was better that way.

But she wasn’t a fourteen-year-old anymore.

She bent to pass him the cup and her bodice pulled, squeezing her bosom.

He tore his gaze away and stared into the swirling liquid, the same glittering dark amber as Perry’s eyes.

She cleared her throat and he smiled, watching the color rise over her frown.

She was still a rebel. He’d watched her at Cransdall thrashing herself, over and over against the walls put up by her world. And the business of seeking him out in London for a commission—it just wasn’t done. Bakeley had been furious.

She patted her mouth with a napkin and squinted at him. Where were the spectacles she’d worn in London?

He sipped the hot liquid and waited.

“Mr. Fox.” She eyed him over the rim of her cup. “I was very surprised to see you here. You say you are painting, but are you not supposed to be at Cransdall? My brother said you are commissioned to do a portrait of my father.”

“That is true.”

“So why are you not there?”

“Your father will not come down from London until after the coronation.”

She sighed, but her shoulders stayed rigid. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

He waited, watching her mouth tighten and move as she squelched the emotions wanting to play across her face. As a girl, she’d been as purposeful as a dog after a bone, constantly chided and hemmed in by her governess, her brothers, and even sometimes her mother. Apparently, she’d learned a bit of self-control.

He’d heard she wanted to enter her father’s Game. She would be relentless and dangerous, most especially to herself.

“Fox,” she snapped. “Cransdall still has that room with the very good light. Go there and paint.”

“Cransdall doesn’t have this.” He waved a hand toward the high windows where the rain beat and the noise of the waves sounded.

Her cup clattered on the saucer. “I’m here. I’m not leaving. You must go.”

“And I’m here also. By your father’s permission.”

That brought her up. “But this house is mine.” Her mouth firmed.

It was grim determination, he decided.

“The house will be yours when you marry. Have you married, Perpetua?”

Her lips curled in. She could not keep her eyes from narrowing. So, Lady Shaldon had not changed her will.

“Is there a husband lurking about who I’m going to have to duel with?”

The pink creeping up her neck turned a brighter shade and his gut clenched.

Was she running away from a husband?

Or…what was more likely, a prospective husband? Shaldon was no doubt pressing her to marry his choice of lordling. It was the way of their class.

“Who told you the house would be mine when I marry?” The words came out in a rush of air, and she stood, towering over him, fists balled.

Heat shot to his groin. He took her hand, squelching the instinct to pull her on to his lap. “Your mother told me years ago. You haven’t married, have you?”

She blinked. He saw the sheen there and slipped his fingers around her other hand, gentling them.

“This was your mother’s house, Perry.” Shaldon should have told her. It should not have been left to a lusting retainer like him.

Her mouth firmed again, her eyes widening, assessing. “You’ve been here before?” she whispered shakily.

He firmed his grip. She’d made a leap that he must set straight. “You didn’t know about this cottage? No. Of course you wouldn’t be told.”

“Were you here…before?”

“Yes.”

“With my mother?” She choked out the question.

“Yes.” He shook his head. “Not in the way you’re thinking.” He stood, still grasping her hands. “Come. The rain has stopped.” He pulled a knitted wrap from the sofa, draped it around her shoulders, and opened the French door to the damp terrace beyond.

Perry took big gulps of the damp, sea-drenched air, struggling to keep the spinning at bay. Fox had trapped her hand again, skin to skin, and she shamefully held on. The shallow balcony’s rail was waist high for a short person. The two of them could topple over far more easily. His grip on her hand, the view down the rocks, and the news, the awful mention of him being here with Mama—she was reeling.

He shifted hands and put an arm around her, tugging her into his warmth. “I won’t let you fall.”

Her insides rattled as if a war had been torched within. She, who stood eye to eye with men, the awkward, towering Long Meg…next to Fox she felt womanly. Hadn’t his height always been one of his draws? Until he’d begun to tease her like an insufferable older brother, turning her feelings upside down. And then her mother’s treasured painting went missing the same time as Fox. If she clung to those unpleasant memories…

She closed her eyes and all of her senses went to the places where his body touched hers, sending delicious warmth through her, tingles, shivers and a feeling of perilous safety. One strong hand fitted with hers, the other cradled her shoulder. She struggled to breathe.

“Perpetua.” He gave her a gentle shake. “Perry.”

She opened her eyes. Only the closest family and friends called her Perry.

There was real concern in his gaze, the teasing absent. As it had been when they’d danced together at her brother’s ball.

In fact, other than a few lapses tonight, he’d been more serious than he’d been all those years ago at Cransdall.

But he’d never, ever touched her like this, not even when they were dancing, not even when as a girl, he’d helped her up after she’d fallen out of the tree right in front of him.

“I’m fine now,” she said, only she wasn’t. She’d never be fine again. “It’s the elevation, and all this wild crashing.” She made herself walk to the edge where the parapet hit her below her hips. He trailed along with her, still attached.

She forced her gaze to the wild waves below.

“Tell me…” She cleared her throat and spoke louder so he would hear over the tumult. “Tell me what you were doing here with my mother.”

“At her request I escorted her here.”

“At her request?”

He turned her to face him. “It was not what you’re thinking. She came here to meet your father.”

“My father?” She sounded stupid, even to her. She cleared the moisture from her throat again. “My father was in…Spain. Or France.” She gazed out over the water. “Or somewhere.” Always somewhere else, her father had been during those years of the war.

“Yes. She came here to meet him when he could get away. She was meeting him then.”

“But she brought you along.”

“She came here to meet your father. She asked me to escort her here, which I did. And then I left.”

She shook her head. “She would have asked Bakeley to bring her.”

“He wasn’t around.”

Of course, he was right, blast him. Bakeley had gone off to buy horses before Mother left, and Perry had been sent off to visit a distant cousin.

“Charley was there.”

“He was too young then.”

The kindness in his gaze angered her.

Her mind went to that time. Her mother had grown thinner with some worry. She’d been vague and distracted about it and once had even become angry when Perry had railed against being restricted to riding with at least two armed grooms.

She’d been a dreadful child during that time. She squeezed her eyes against that load of guilt.

His hand still warmed her. A shiver went through her. “What were you to her, Fox? Or maybe I should ask, what was she to you? Were you…” She sucked in a breath. “In love with her?”

“In love?”

She felt his body rise taller, never releasing her.

When she opened her eyes, the truth she saw in his gaze pressed all the air from her lungs. “Oh, my God. You. My mother.”

She was a fool. Fourteen or twenty-four, at any age she was a fool.

She tried to pull away, but he yanked her closer. “No. Not like that. She was like a…a mother, Perry.”

“A mother.”

He nodded, unconvincingly.

“You and she were not lovers?”

His gaze darkened, light from the glowing ocean making his eyes sparkle. He turned her to face him and tugged her tighter, pressing them together hip to shoulder, squeezing the air from her, forcing her chin up.

“Your mother and I were never lovers. Never. Never inclined to be either. You were fourteen. Far too young.” One broad finger touched her lips. “Then.”

Wild anticipation pulsed through her. He set her back from him. “Come. I’ll show you to your room.”