Fox lolled in an armchair, coatless, his white shirt flopped open to a muscled, hairy, masculine chest.

Heat thundered through her and she tore her gaze away. The nearby grate was laid with unlit kindling and wood, freshly placed, she would guess from the shavings that littered the hearth.

No healthy, dry man would want a fire on a night this mild. Even if he’d gone out after delivering her to her room, he wouldn’t have got himself wet. The rain had stopped.

He hadn’t stood at her entry, as a gentleman would. Perhaps he was ill.

She forced her gaze further. A narrow bed had been pushed into a far corner, the linens spread out but rumpled. The tall windows on three walls, east, west, and north, were closed, the curtains pushed wide apart. Near the west window an easel stood, its canvas draped by a white cloth. Two pristine canvases leaned in an open space along the wall.

“You should not be here.” His deep voice drew her gaze back.

That heat she’d felt earlier thrummed in her chest, threatening to make her quiver. Looking away hadn’t helped. She steeled herself against her body’s betrayal and spotted the half-empty bottle. “You’re drinking,” she said.

His smirking smile converted most of the burning inside her to ire. The insufferable ass.

Still, a drunk man might talk. She moved closer.

Fox uncurled from the chair and sat up.

Or, a drunk man might be dangerous.

Not Fox, though. Not to her. Unless he’d somehow been tied up in Mama’s death.

She clasped her hands, bringing her knife nearer.

The bottle, a lamp, and a sketchpad sat on the table. “What are you drawing?” she asked, then silently cursed her distractibility.

Everything about this man was a distraction.

He rested his arm over the pad.

Well, well. They would come back to that. If he truly was here by Father’s invitation, his drawings would have something to do with Father’s work. Unlike many of his peers, Father did not have a passion for art. As far as she knew, he’d only ever personally bought one painting in his life, the stolen masterpiece he’d given her mother years and years ago, and it was completely unrelated to his business of spying.

She must remember her purpose. “Never mind the sketchpad.” She infused her voice with congeniality, the way Bakeley’s Irish wife, Sirena, might speak. “We didn’t finish our discussion downstairs.” How would Sirena say it? “I confess the sight of all those rocks and crashing waves below made me dizzy and distracted.” Not to mention the press of your hands.

He watched her, his face expressionless.

There were no other chairs in the room. She looked again at the bed.

Fox shot to his feet. “Sit here. If you must.”

“Very well.” The seat held his warmth and his scent, brandy and musk and a tinge of the fine roan gelding she’d seen in the stable.

That fine horse was too rich for a portrait painter. It was likely from the stables at Cransdall. Her father was being excessively generous.

“Perhaps I might have a brandy also,” she said.

He handed her his tumbler. “Here. I only have the one glass.”

A tingle went through her at the uncomfortable intimacy. She raised the glass to her lips and sniffed.

“You won’t like it.”

Insufferable man. The glare she sent him made his lips curve, almost into a smile.

“What I mean is, it’s not top quality. Not up to the standards of what your father keeps.”

She took the barest sip and swallowed. The sharp, vinegary taste made her lips pucker and sent heat up her nose. She pinched it to suppress a sneeze.

His grin said, I told you so.

“Actually, my brother is the one in charge of searching out the best brandy. I believe Father prefers whisky. Perhaps it’s Kincaid’s influence. He doesn’t much care for brandy.”

She sloshed the liquid, threads of memory swirling. Mother’s many lessons for Bakeley had included where and how to obtain the best brandy. She understood now—the veiled references had been to smugglers.

Were there smugglers around here? Was Fox involved with them at her father’s behest? Nothing her father did was random.

“And neither do you.”

His words pulled her from her train of thought. He was trying to befuddle her again.

She sighed, letting him have that point and lifted her chin.

Around her the air crackled. He towered over her, well over six feet of lean muscled man, his white shirt dangling open right over his heart.

Concentrate, Perry. If she must defend herself and pierce those firm muscles, there would be ribs there blocking her dagger. Her sister-in-law Paulette had shared the knife lessons she’d learned. That chest wasn’t a good target.

His strong corded neck would be the place for a blade.

The thought sent the brandy sloshing. She set the glass down. She could never do it. And besides, he could take the dagger away and push it into her if he wished.

Warmth tugged at her insides. If he wished he could push something other than a dagger in her. She would resist, of course, as best she could.

Probably. At least for a while.

His hands went to his hips bringing her gaze along, sending her pulse into a brisk tattoo. He was aroused and not at all trying to hide it. Her thoughts tangled and twisted, the heat melting her insides from the top of her head to her very toes.

“Perry,” he said softly, eyes dark, glittering. He saw her desire but how could he? She’d not moved. She’d not revealed anything. She felt as stupid as one of Charley’s society marks.

No, stupid was not the right word here. She felt addled yet focused, numb yet alive, weak-kneed yet strangely powerful. She pushed back at the desire, trying to remember why she’d come here.

“Perry. Why are you here in your nightgown? You should be in bed.”

He’d packed his questions with a sentiment more like brotherly frustration than a lover’s teasing, helping to tame her wild heat.

“To talk.” She flung a hand out. It landed on the sketchpad.

His gaze shot to the pad. He took a step closer. She flapped the cover open.

And lost her breath completely. The woman looking up from the page sparkled and smiled in a way she knew she never did in real life. She looked…beautiful. The face beamed a joy she’d rarely experienced in ten years. Only her horses, her nephew, and her new sisters could bring out this smile.

She could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen Fox since her mother’s death, all of them last winter. When had he seen her smile like this?

Blood clanged in her ears bringing warmth to her cheeks. And why, of all subjects, had he drawn her? That could not be her father’s commission, could it?

She flipped another page and there she was in the distinctive gown and headpiece she’d worn to Bakeley’s wedding ball. Another page, and she was inclining her head in a country dance.

She felt suddenly foolish, naked here in her nightclothes with her hair tumbling around her shoulders.

Tame Fox? She was an idiot.

She jumped to her feet. “Never mind. Talking to you is like talking to Father or Bakeley or Charley. Keep your secrets and lies.”

Fox saw the moment she realized the drawings were of her. Another woman might be flattered, might decide to climb into his bed and relieve this throbbing reaction.

Perry would never be that easy. As a girl, she’d always become churlish and defensive. There was more to her reaction now, though, a shakiness within her. The drawings had frightened her. The rod in his trousers had frightened her. Her desire—so palpable in this small room—that had frightened her the most.

“And this…” She clutched the pad close to her chest. “I’m keeping this.”

That he couldn’t allow. He reached for the pad, and his hand landed on her forearm, jolting him more. He peeled back her sleeve and saw the dagger, its grip cheap and worn in a tattered sheath.

In the quiet, the only noise was her shallow quick breathing and the pounding of his heart.

Shame washed through him. Damn Shaldon. Damn the villain he was pursuing for Shaldon, Gregory Carvelle. Damn Bonaparte and the Georges and all the others who drove the world into madness. He should not be here, in this house, with the girl he’d shamefully lusted after, the girl he’d frightened so much she’d come to him armed.

Her tension flooded into him. He held on to her for long moments until he could finally speak calmly.

“I won’t hurt you, Lady Perpetua, but this is wild country and it’s good that you’re armed. I have a better blade in my trunk. I’ll dig it out and give it to you tomorrow. Did you bring pistols also?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how to use them? No, wait, of course you do. Just please don’t use them on me. I won’t hurt you. I’m here with your father’s permission, doing some sketching and painting.” He dropped her arm and took a step back. “When you need a footman or groom, I can fill that role. Otherwise, I’ll stay out of your way.”

She brushed past him, leaving her scent, a floral mixed with a fear that shamed him. When the door clicked shut, he gripped the glass, tossed back the liquor, and stalked the few feet to the easel, throwing back the drape of the canvas.

Upon his arrival, he’d started the painting in a frenzy of work. It was incomplete, yet no one could mistake the model. She stood tall and defiant, her hair cascading over strong shoulders and delicate breasts, her nude body draped with the sheerest of veils.

This would have frightened her more. The shape of her breasts and her hips, he’d imagined, watching her move through the crowd at her brother’s ball, watching her dance. Women’s dresses now were not as blissfully revealing as they’d been a decade ago, but he’d seen enough women to guess at her nude shape.

He should destroy this. On the other hand, if she saw it, if he could cajole her past her fear…

Posing for an artist unleashed some women’s inhibitions. But he wouldn’t use Perry that way.

A movement outside caught his eye. He extinguished the lamp and stood to the side of the window, straining to see. A shadow moved through the fog below.

A figure steered his horse silently, slowly, stealthily up the drive. Any clomps of the horse were swallowed by the relentless beating of the surf on the rocks below.

Fox pulled on his coats, sheathed his knife, and quickly loaded a pistol, his thoughts going to Perry. In all good conscience, he had to convince the girl to leave. She couldn’t stay here.