A Rake's Midnight Kiss. Anna Campbell
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Sirius’s interruption, he might have watched forever, but he must have left his bedroom door along the corridor ajar. Sirius squeezed past him now and trotted up to the desk.
“Hello. Where did you come from?” Genevieve spoke with a warmth she’d never directed at Richard, damn it. When she glanced up, she started. Then her closed expression felt like a winter wind. To his regret, she tugged her sleeve over her pale shoulder. “Mr. Evans.”
“Miss Barrett.” At this hour, he couldn’t help thinking that they’d both be better off in bed. His bed. Not that wanting did much good. Lusting after a chaste woman promised only frustration.
“You surprised me.”
“Are your nerves on edge?”
She shrugged. “I’m jumpy after the break-in.”
Guilt stabbed him. She’d been so indomitable facing down his burglar self, it hadn’t occurred to him that she’d been genuinely frightened.
Masking her vulnerability, she extended a hand to scratch Sirius behind the ears. Ridiculous to be jealous of a dog, but Richard was.
“What are you doing awake?” she asked.
To confirm the uncivilized hour, a lark burst into a torrent of silvery song outside. He decided to be honest. Well, as honest as a man sporting a false name could be. “You’re avoiding me.”
She didn’t meet his eyes. “Nonsense.”
“I moved in three days ago and we’ve hardly exchanged a word since.”
“You’re here to work with my father.” Her dry tone indicated that she questioned his dedication to scholarship. Clever girl. With a doggy groan, Sirius stretched out beneath the windowsill.
“You’re more decorative.”
She pursed her lips. The expression didn’t look forbidding. It looked like she meant to kiss him. The thought lit the cool dawn to flame.
Gently he closed the door and stepped into the bookcase-lined room. Books and papers littered every flat surface. The shambles was endearing. The rest of the house was dauntingly ordered. When he’d broken in, he hadn’t noted his surroundings. The woman had occupied his attention. The woman and the Harmsworth Jewel.
She set down her pen. “I need to help Dorcas with breakfast.”
He didn’t shift. “Dorcas is still enjoying the sleep of the just.”
“We’ll wake everyone if we talk here.”
“I’ll keep my voice down.” The vicarage was old. Seventeenth century, he guessed. The walls and doors were so thick, no sound penetrated. After he’d locked Genevieve in, he’d barely heard her protests.
“It’s inappropriate for us to be alone.” She jerked to her feet, upsetting the horn cup of water on the desk. “Bother!”
He surged forward to hold her wrist. Her skin was warm and he caught a drift of her morning scent. Flowers and woman. “Let me.”
“No, I’ll fix it.” Ink-stained fingers fluttered in protest without making contact.
When he released her, he heard her relieved exhalation. Her eyes fixed upon a gold object on the crowded desk. It proved how distracting she was that he only now realized that, as on the first night, the Harmsworth Jewel sat for the plucking, if he was so bold.
He wasn’t so bold.
“I hope the water hasn’t damaged anything.” Drawing his handkerchief from his coat, he mopped up the spillage. Thank goodness, the cup had been nearly empty.
“Only some notes I’m working on.” With little ceremony, Genevieve pushed him out of the way and grabbed a crumpled cloth from the floor. Carefully she sponged the sheet she’d been writing on. The ink blotched and she tossed the cloth into a corner with a sigh.
With every moment, the day brightened. Soon he’d have no excuse to detain her. Richard wondered, not for the first time, if he’d find her so fascinating if she didn’t prickle with hostility. Then he remembered her serene beauty in the candlelight. She’d attract him whatever she did. Something about her made him feel alive. Was it just that she saw him as a man, not as the notorious Harmsworth bastard? Or was it something more?
He looked around with a deliberately casual air. “What do you do in here?”
She cast him a suspicious look as he lifted a pile of papers from the desk and perched his hip on the space. “What do you care?”
He cared more than she imagined. In his peripheral vision, the Harmsworth Jewel shone red, blue, and gold. Strategy suggested an oblique approach to his real interest. His real interests. Genevieve’s lure became at least as powerful as the family relic’s.
He met her challenge with a level stare. “Why so secretive?”
She slumped into her chair and regarded the soaked page with a disgruntled expression. “Do you like working with my father?”
“Yes,” he said, not altogether truthfully. He enjoyed reviving his rusty Latin and Greek, but the vicar wasn’t the intellectual powerhouse reputation indicated. Richard was yet to glimpse the brilliance that illuminated the articles. “I thought you acted as his assistant.”
“I do.” An unreadable expression crossed her lovely face.
He’d caught vague hints of an estrangement between the vicar and his daughter, but now he was sure of it. Genevieve was yet to join one of his sessions with Dr. Barrett. That suddenly struck him as more significant than her merely avoiding a guest’s company.
Idly he lifted a page covered with writing. She had a strong, almost masculine hand.
“Put that down!” She rushed around the desk and snatched uselessly at the paper.
“Indulge me.” He stepped sideways and started to read, then frowned. He put down that page and reached around her for the next. After a few minutes, he replaced the pages and lifted his head to stare at her in shock. “It’s you.”
She scowled, panting with annoyance at his high-handed behavior. He rather liked that she made no attempt to charm him. Women always strove to turn him up sweet, however disreputable his birth. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Dr. Barrett isn’t the brilliant mind here. His daughter is. You write the articles.”
Genevieve paled and backed against the desk. Her hand clenched on her ruined manuscript, crushing the damp paper into a ball. “Don’t be absurd. I’m a mere woman.”
He laughed, genuinely delighted. “That’s the first coy thing I’ve heard you say.”
Her jaw set in a mutinous line. “Any article written in this house is published under my father’s name.”
“It’s all your work.” He watched her struggle to deny the truth. But the lightning intelligence and sharp perception demonstrated in the articles, and lacking in the vicar, were clear from the first line. “Come, there’s no point nay-saying. I know you’re the scholar here.”
Briefly he wondered whether he could turn this knowledge against her, use it to obtain the jewel. Would she sell him the heirloom in return for his silence on her authorship? He tucked the thought away to consider later, even as he recognized his reluctance to resort to blackmail. Ridiculous when the whole purpose of this masquerade was to winkle out the chit’s secrets.
“I have no qualifications.”
“Apart from a brain the size of St. Paul’s. And a lifetime in scholarly circles.” Still, he was impressed at what she’d achieved without formal education. Ignoring her resistance, he lifted the hand curled around the soggy paper and placed a kiss across her knuckles. For once he wasn’t being seductive. “Deny the fact until Christmas, but it won’t do any good. I’m in awe, Miss Barrett.”
She