Will served the fish in silence, darting a nervous glance between Winter and her.

“That will be all,” Isabel said firmly.

“Yes, my lady,” the footman murmured as he backed out the door. No doubt all her servants were waiting in the corridor to hear Will’s report.

Isabel sighed and looked at Winter.

He took another sip of the wine. “This is very good. Italian?”

“Yes, I just got it in.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re the son of a beer brewer. How do you come to know about wine?”

Was that a hint of embarrassment in his eyes? He shrugged. “I like wine.”

“Just when I think I’ve come to know you, you reveal something entirely unexpected about yourself,” she said.

“Ah.” He set his wineglass down. “That’s where you and I differ. I don’t expect to ever know all of your secrets. I look forward, years from now, to making new discoveries each day.”

“Winter…” Her heart near broke at the warmth in his brown eyes. She couldn’t let him think that she might change her mind. “You know we have no future together.”

He didn’t reply, instead taking a bite of the fish, but his very silence shouted his stubbornness.

She sighed. “What will you do now?”

“I’ve thought that I might take up tutoring,” he replied, “of a young boy.”

Her brows knit. “Who do you know who has—”

He smiled as her eyes widened in comprehension.

“But Christopher is only five,” she protested. “Far too young for a tutor.”

“I’ve found that teaching children—especially boys—is best started as early as possible,” he said, unperturbed. “I’ll begin lessons with Christopher tomorrow.”

“But… but…” She tried to think of an excuse for him not to begin lessons with Christopher, but the fact was that Christopher would undoubtedly do well with some masculine discipline. Lord knew that he was nearly a feral child with only Carruthers trying to tame him.

“Good. I’m glad that’s settled,” Winter said as if she’d given her full and grateful consent. “I’ll just take my things upstairs.”

“Now see here—” she began before his last words sank in. She brought herself up short, blinking in confusion. “What?”

His smile had turned definitely wolfish as he pushed himself away from the table. “One of the benefits of being a private tutor instead of a schoolmaster: tutors live with the family. Now what room would you like to put me in?”

THREE DAYS LATER, Winter sat at a low table in Isabel’s nursery. It was a room at the top of the house, but well appointed for all that. Tall windows gave in light and were properly barred at the bottom to forestall any accidents. An impressive set of tin soldiers marched along a bookcase and a rather battered stuffed lion lounged in the chair next to his pupil.

Winter pushed a plate of tiny cakes to the center of a table. “Now, then, Christopher. Cook has kindly made fairy cakes for our tea. How many did she give us?”

The boy, sitting at the table opposite, leaned on his elbows to study the iced cakes. Each had a strawberry on top and they looked quite appealing.

“Twelve!” he said after a moment spent moving his lips as he counted.

“Quite correct,” Winter said. “If we were to split the cakes between us, how many would we each have?”

Christopher’s brow furrowed ferociously as he mulled over the question. Winter poured him a cup of milky tea with a spoonful of sugar as he waited.

“Six?” the boy finally asked.

“Indeed.” Winter smiled his approval. “But six fairy cakes apiece would no doubt result in a tummy ache for you and the possibility of gout for me. Thus”—he nodded to Isabel as she entered the nursery—“we are very fortunate indeed that Lady Beckinhall has come to join us for our tea.”

Isabel smiled. “Good afternoon, Mr. Makepeace. Christopher.”

“We’re doing maths, my lady!” Christopher bounced in his seat. “And Cook made fairy cakes for tea.”

“Marvelous!” Isabel cast a sidelong smile at Winter as she sat. In the last few days, there had been a marked improvement in her comfort around Christopher. “What else have you discussed with Mr. Makepeace today?”

Winter took a hasty sip of tea, avoiding her eyes.

Christopher in contrast leaned forward conspiratorially. “The Battle of Hastings. Did you know that King Harold was killed by an arrow in his eye?”

“Really?” Isabel’s voice sounded a bit weak. “And is that a proper subject for little boys, Mr. Makepeace?”

Winter cleared his throat. “I find when discussing history, the most, er, colorful moments are more apt to hold a boy’s attention.”

“Hmm.” She poured herself a cup of tea, adding cream and sugar. “I had no idea that tutoring little boys was so, um, dramatic.”

“It is a fascinating occupation,” Winter said gravely. “For instance, Christopher and I are about to discuss division. Now, Christopher, we need to divide these fairy cakes equally among Lady Beckinhall, myself, and you. How many do you think we shall each get?”

Christopher wrinkled his nose in thought. “Five?”

“Ah. Shall we test your guess?”

Christopher nodded vigorously.

“Then please apportion out the fairy cakes equally.”

Winter sipped his tea and watched as Christopher carefully placed a fairy cake on each of their plates in turn until all the cakes were gone from the serving plate.

“Good,” Winter said. “Now—”

“Will we be able to eventually eat these cakes?” Isabel muttered, eyeing the cakes on her plate.

“Patience, Lady Beckinhall. Scholarship must not be rushed,” he chided her. She shot him a look promising retribution. “Now, then, Christopher, can you count the cakes on your plate?”

Christopher counted. “Four.”

“And there are three of us,” Winter said. “So three times four is…?”

Christopher’s eyes darted between the plates before his entire little face lit up. “Twelve! Three times four is twelve, Mr. Makepeace!”

“Quite so, Christopher,” he said with approval. “And now, Lady Beckinhall, we may eat our cakes.”

“Huzzah!” cried Christopher as he attempted to stuff an entire fairy cake into his mouth.

Well. Table manners were a subject they could discuss later.

He watched Isabel take a dainty bite of her cake, licking a crumb from the corner of her mouth, and felt his loins tighten. He’d hidden it well, he thought, but living in the same house as her, taking his meals with her—as she’d insisted—even simply breathing the same air was next to agony.

Winter grimly took a bite of cake and chewed. He’d vowed not to mention the subject of marriage again until she became used to the idea. Obviously he’d proposed much too soon for her tastes. Thus, he must play a waiting game, gradually letting her become accustomed to his presence in her life. And, he’d decided, it was best to abstain from sex during that time. A decision he was beginning to regret.

“Would you like some more tea?” She leaned over to pour herself another cup of tea, the movement affording him a wonderful view of her bosom. “Mr. Makepeace?”

He brought his gaze back up. She was blinking at him innocently. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

This wait might very well kill him.

She smiled as she poured tea into his cup. “I hope you find your rooms comfortable?”

“Quite.” He took a too-hasty sip of tea and scalded his tongue.

“The view is to your liking?”

He had a view of a brick wall. “Indeed.”

She fluttered her eyelashes at him over the rim of her teacup. “And the bed. Is it soft and… yielding?”

He nearly choked on the bite of cake he’d just taken.

“Or do you prefer a firmer bed?” she asked sweetly. “One that refuses to yield too soon?”

“I think”—he narrowed his eyes at her—“whatever mattress I have on the bed you gave me is perfect. But tell me, my lady, what sort of mattress do you prefer? All soft goose down or one that’s a bit… harder?”

It was very fast, but he saw it: Her gaze flashed down to the juncture of his thighs and then up again. If there hadn’t been anything to see there before, there certainly was now.

“Oh, I like a nice stiff mattress,” she purred. “Well warmed and ready for a long ride.”

His nostrils flared involuntarily, for he swore he could scent her—soft and ready for him. If they were alone, if there was a bed nearby or even—

“Why do you ride your mattress, my lady?” Christopher asked indistinctly around a mouthful of cake. “I like to sleep in my bed.”

“Um…” Isabel squinted as she tried to find an answer to the innocent inquiry.

“Lady Beckinhall sleeps in her bed as well, Christopher,” Winter said without any emphasis at all. “Now remember not to speak with your mouth full and have some more tea.”

The boy happily held out his cup.

Winter filled it, carefully not looking at Isabel. If only he could distract his appetites as easily as he did Christopher…

Chapter Sixteen

At long last the Harlequin’s True Love heard a shout and the sound of men in combat. Instead of fleeing the violence, she crept closer, peering around a corner. There in a small square, she saw the Harlequin fighting five men at once. The men about him shouted and grunted with the exertion of their labor, but the Harlequin made not a sound himself as he methodically cut his enemies down, one by one…

—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles

Isabel lay in bed that night, her silk coverlet pulled to her chin, and wondered what she was doing. She’d rejected Winter—told him flatly that she could not marry him. With any other man, the news might’ve been met with relief: He could continue a clandestine affair with her without the commitment of matrimony. His choices then were either to continue as they were or to break the thing off.

Instead he’d managed to move into her household.

She wasn’t naïve. The man was stubborn and proud. He hadn’t given up his ridiculous notion of marrying her. Perhaps he really did love her.

She closed her eyes in the darkness, her heart squeezing painfully in fear at the thought. She hadn’t let herself think it before now. It was simply too terrible to contemplate. She wasn’t like him, a person capable of deep caring. She’d shied away from strong emotions of any sort practically all her life. In her heart Isabel knew: She simply wasn’t worthy of his love. Someday he’d find that out, and when he did—

There was no sound, but she felt a movement, a shifting of the air in her room, the warmth of another presence.

Isabel opened her eyes. He was there, at the foot of her bed, a single candle in his hand, dressed only in shirtsleeves, waistcoat, and breeches.

“Forgive me,” he whispered as he set the candle down. “I could not stay away.”

She lifted herself on her elbows, her pulse beginning to speed as she watched him shrug out of his coat.

“It’s an oddity, actually,” he said, almost as if he were musing to himself. “My self-control is rather strong as a rule. I’ve managed to keep the secret of the Ghost for nine years, from both friends and family. I don’t lose my temper often. I’ve sustained wounds and never by action or word let anyone know, even if it meant cleaning and sewing up a wound myself.”

He unbuttoned his waistcoat. “I think, objectively, that we can agree that my control is better than the average man’s. I was, after all, celibate until I met you, and nearly content with that state of affairs.”