Perry buried her face in the bed pillow. It smelled of citrus and Fox’s own musk. She turned her head and rubbed her cheek against the linen. Today he’d left the bed rumpled and messy and—yes, he was right. By all that was holy and proper with the ton, finding herself plopped onto his bed was why she must leave.

She turned on her side and curled her legs, relaxing into the cloth-covered ticking. Fox’s bed was considerably lumpier than hers.

“Get up.” He spoke from next to the bed.

She waited for his touch.

“Get up.”

“I’m not a performing dog.”

“Of course you’re not. You’re Lady Perpetua, the daughter of the Earl of Shaldon.”

She squeezed her eyes tight against his cold jabs. No tears. She would not cry. She would not. No matter how unfair he was, talking to her as if she was a spoiled miss.

She wasn’t spoiled. She hadn’t even been a spoiled child all those years ago. She was dutiful, and kind, and a rule-follower.

And so tired of it. She’d grasped this chance to take charge of her life, and she was determined to stay the course.

She pushed herself upright on the edge of the bed, with Fox standing just within reach. The dimming light shadowed his handsome face, but couldn’t hide the heat coming off him, or the sound of his breathing. He may be angry, but he cared for her.

“Why do you do it, Fox?”

His scent came to her on a sudden breeze. One of the windows must be open.

“Perpetua.”

Her heart leaped. He hadn’t asked what she was talking about.

“Perry. Call me Perry, as you’ve been doing.”

She stood and he took a step back.

“You tease me and draw me close, and then you push me away. Why?”

“You need to go home, Lady Perpetua. You should not be here in the home of a single man—and yes, for now it is my home, not yours.”

She caught a note of desperation in his voice. “And you’re engaged in a dangerous business.”

He paused. “Yes.”

“Thank you for the truth. You are looking for my mother’s murderer.”

“Yes.”

He’d hesitated again. Finding her mother’s killer was not the only reason he was here then. “And you also are a spy.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes. I believe you are. But for whom? Nine years ago, our countries were at war. Were you at Cransdall ten years ago spying on the spymaster?”

Fox took a step back. She moved closer.

“A portraitist with well-heeled clients moves in the highest circles. He dabs paint in the corners of rooms and listens to people talking. Did you spy for France, Fox?”

He grasped her arms and locked his to hold her away. “I would never spy for a country of brutes who turn the guillotine on so many of their own.”

“England has brutes, so I’ve heard. Yet here you are. Spying for America then?”

“Perry.”

He’d softened that one word into a wheedling tone that made her shiver.

She pressed harder. “Yes, I think that’s what you did. You met friends from the embassy for drinks or lunch and passed on the tidbits of what you learned. Charley often operated that way. And then shortly before our countries went back to war, you did that one job for my mother.”

“You have it all figured out,” he said.

He was trying for his usual bland sarcasm, but she heard it—that note of distraction, a lack of air, a deep pain that called to some still deeper part of her womanhood.

“You did this one job and it almost got you killed.” She set her hand over his pulsing heart.

Her palm pressed like a hot iron, the long fingers trailing lightning into his soul, streaks of white heat beating into him, centering in his groin, inflaming him. She was here. In his room. Could be in his bed in one quick move.

Muscles straining with effort, he pulled her hand away. “Let me escort you back downstairs. Jenny will have dinner ready.” He infused his voice with the type of ennui he’d heard at the hundreds of dinner parties he’d attended as the interesting American artist. His few years of formal education and the pedigree he’d embellished had made the novelty guest acceptable. “You must be famished.” He should get her downstairs, fed, and back safely to her chambers. The smugglers might return tonight for their booty. When they found two kegs missing they’d be pounding on his door for answers.

“Oh, I am famished all right. Where is the painting of me you were working on?”

Bollocks. “So you saw that.”

“I did.” She inched closer. “I will pose for you, should you wish to work from a live model.”

Perry the woman, grown into Aphrodite. His arms itched to pull her against him.

He took a step back. At this rate, she’d edge him out of the window.

The tiny brain between his legs shouted, Why not take her? She wanted him, and by all the wild Indians in Kentucky, he wanted her. He’d stepped back once from a woman he’d wanted and she’d fallen into another man’s arms. His brother’s arms.

The memory jumbled his brain. Seducing a virgin was not his way. He’d been honorable with Constance, the wealthy Philadelphia girl who’d abandoned him for his older brother, and he’d looked back many times thanking his stars. Losing Constance had wounded his pride—and been a great blessing. He would never have progressed so far in his painting, or had such adventures, or met this magnificent woman.

Who he also could not have.

In spite of the dimness, her eyes shone brightly. He should light the surviving lamp.

“You were not the model for that painting.”

She twitched. “Was I not?” A deep sigh escaped her. “Why the lies, Fox? Why always the lies? Why push me away?”

He broke from her, found his tinder box, busied himself with lighting the lamp.

Then cursed himself—in the light, she glowed more than ever, beautiful, and with a strength that surprised him.

“You want me, Fox, and I want you.”

Without touching, without removing one article of clothing, she was seducing him; artless, gawky, Lady Perpetua. He almost laughed.

He was but a man, dammit, and she a lovely woman.

The daughter of Lord Shaldon, his employer and benefactor. A virgin.

“Look at me, Lady Perpetua. I paint pictures for my living.”

“And spy.”

He sighed. “That is not a means of support. I paint pictures for my living. Where I go, I rent cheap rooms. I don’t host parties. I don’t belong to Brooks’s or White’s. I don’t own a horse.”

She opened her mouth.

Do not tell me about your fortune.

She closed her mouth and squeezed her lips together.

“You, on the other hand, are the only daughter of one of the great families of England. You’re destined for more greatness, Perry.” He swallowed. “Lady Perpetua. You’re destined for greatness that has nothing to do with your money. With the right husband, you will be a political leader in your own right, influencing bills and elections.”

“Ladies have no—”

“Don’t tell me ladies have no power.” He tapped a finger on her forehead. “This powerful brain understands the workings of politics. You may not be able to serve in your parliament, but you have a father and brothers who do. Political men need political hostesses.”

“My brothers have wives.”

“Find the right husband and—”

“No.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You’re doing it again.” She looked around the room and went back to perch on his bed.

He took the chair across the room. “It’s the only way for you. And you can’t do that if you start out with a scandal, caught alone with an American painter who’s nowhere near good enough for you on any scale of measuring. You have to go home, or back to your brother’s, and the sooner we get you out of here, the better. The locals think you’re a ghost.”

“I know. Pip told me.”

“Pip.”

“The boy I met on the road.”

Tension crept through him. He’d heard a mention of Pip that very day.

Confound it. Pip was Davy’s son.

“Dammit, Perry. What did you tell him?”

“After he told me my mother was murdered?” she asked archly. “You don’t need to curse at me, Fox. I told him my name was Lizzie. I didn’t tell him I was staying at Gorse Cottage. And I asked him to keep our encounter secret. He said he would, and I think the children around here are good at secrets.”

He had to persuade her to leave. “Pip’s father was down at the cove last night. He saw you in the window.” His skin prickled. This window. She’d been in his room snooping. “He thought you were a ghost.”

Her back stiffened. “The ghost comes when there’s a tenant at Gorse Cottage, Pip said.” Perry studied the floor and lifted her gaze to him. “I don’t believe in ghosts. Who comes here? Are the smugglers sending in ghosts to keep outsiders away?”

“More likely your father sends the tenants and has them tell a good ghost story to keep the smugglers out of his house and your mother’s things. Also, your father and his people must have needed this cottage during the war.”

“Not much goes on that the locals don’t know.”

“True. But you can see you need to leave before they realize you’re real flesh and blood.”

Her gaze drilled into him. Her fingers gripped the edge of the mattress. “I’ll not leave before you realize I’m real flesh and blood.”

Blood pulsed and heated and sent fire through him. He ached with the need for her. “I know you’re real flesh and blood. You’re also a virgin. High-born or low, doesn’t matter to me. I don’t despoil virgins.”

Perry watched him, as still as a statue, quite unlike the girl who had wriggled and grimaced all through her sitting so many years ago.

“I’ll send MacEwen tomorrow for your brother.”

She rose from the lumpy mattress like the phoenix, glowing in the light and floating closer until she was standing over his chair. The shadows played at her neck and her throat, inciting visions of her on top of him. He gripped the arms of his chair.

“I’ll make you a deal, Fox.” She set her hands upon his and leaned closer, filling him with her scent. “Take me to your bed. Take me.” She squeezed her eyes a brief moment and when she opened them they glowed, dark and deep. “Make love to me. And then I’ll leave on my own. No need to send for my brothers.”

Dazzling, she was. His shaft raged at him, wanting him to open his arms, to shout yes and take her. He dug his nails into the wood. He could control this. He could think for both of them.

“No, Lady Perpetua. I’ll paint you. I’ll protect you. I won’t ruin you.”

She blinked.

Oh, God, the hurt he saw in her eyes flayed his heart.

“Is that how you see making love to me?”

“I’m an American painter with no fortune and no prospects. You’re Lady Perpetua.”

She traced a finger along his jaw and sucked on her lip, sending fire through him. “Oh, Fox, I’m but a woman. Will you not see me as that?”

He pulled her finger away. “It cannot be.”

Her lovely jaw firmed and her lips trembled. “You do not wish it to be.”

She jerked away and walked to the window, taking her heat with her, leaving him bereft. So be it.

He released his grip on the chair arms. “Jenny should have the food ready soon, if she hasn’t burned everything. Would you like your dinner served in the parlor?”

“I cannot bear to face the life everyone plans for me.” She turned an inscrutable gaze at him. “Are you planning formal dress for dinner?” Turning back, she leaned her forehead against the window pane. “The kitchen is fine. I believe Jenny has a tendre for MacEwen.”

She sounded distracted, scattered, emotionally dull, like he had finally broken through her willfulness. He needed to get her out of here before the urge to take her into his arms overcame him.

Poking her into anger had always worked. “And what good would come of that?”

Her breath frosted the chilly window. He wondered if her eyes were closed.

“A moment of happiness,” she whispered into the glass, and then straightened. “I’ll see if she needs help in the kitchen.”

The door closed quietly behind her.

He leaned back in his chair and put a hand to his cock, and then pulled it back right away, as if he’d been scorched. It had been a close call when she’d touched his beard.

He sighed. His wash water would be cold. Scraping off this scruff, he might take some of the skin with it, which was just what he deserved.

Shedding his shirt and coats, he set about washing and shaving.

She’d walked off despondent, but she’d come around to hating him again. He’d talk to her brother and ask him to keep this from the rest of the family.

He hated seeing her unhappy, but it was the only choice. Between the Scotsman and the maid there was more chance for a moment of happiness than there could ever be for him and Perry.

Tomorrow, he’d send MacEwen for her brother. He’d get the name of her brother’s estate over supper, and then he’d go out, for the rest of the night if need be, anything to keep away from the girl. Or he’d go and sleep in the stable with MacEwen. The straw couldn’t be any lumpier than this mattress.

“You’re sure you won’t join us, miss?” Jenny shifted the tray onto the table, sliding the stacked coins out of the way. And why would Lady Perry be counting her coins?

“Are you quite all right, miss? I can just as well cart this back to the kitchen if you’ll but join us.”

Lady Perry turned away from the window and sent her a thin smile. “I thought to give you more time with your Fergus MacEwen.”

Heat flared in her. “He’s not my Fergus MacEwen.”

That brought a real smile from Lady Perry. “Well, he’s more likely to flirt and slip up if I’m not around. You must get him to share one of his secrets.”

“I’ll serve the men when they come down and come back in a bit for this tray.”

“No need.” Lady Perry shook her head vigorously. “Leave it until morning. And don’t worry about helping me into bed. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since I don’t know when. Use the corridor door to your chamber. I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

She softened that last with another smile, but Jenny detected a tension around her eyes.

“Whatever you’re planning, I can be a help, my lady.”

“I’m not…I’m not planning anything.”

“You’re counting your money.”

“I’m thinking to send for more supplies.” She let out a great yawn and covered her mouth. “Go then, and don’t fret.”

“But, miss—”

“Go, Jenny.” Lady Perry crossed the room and Jenny felt the soft pressure of her hand on her back. “Go serve the men their supper and talk to your MacEwen.”

That afternoon, MacEwen had stripped to his waist to shave, grinning around the blade scraping his jaws. He’d flirted prodigiously, too.

Jenny put aside her unease and pulled the door closed behind her.

She would come back for that tray though, after the men’s dinner was cleared.