Matthews yanked the door open after a minute, still fully attired in an evening suit. He must have expected Nicolas or Tommy the lad, for his stance became submissive the moment he was aware who was in front of him. But as his gaze scurried quickly, furtively, over Lucian’s robe and his damp hair, an emotion flared in his eyes. Raging antipathy. Odd.
“You were out?” Lucian asked.
A nod. “The opera. Puccini. Magnificent interpretation.”
“Right; I need you to go to the hothouse flower traders in Covent Garden at dawn tomorrow,” he said, and handed Matthews the folded paper. “Have her lady’s maid make them into a bouquet, which she is to put into Mrs. Blackstone’s chamber before she rises.”
Matthews took the list without looking at it. “Will do, sir,” he murmured. The room behind him was bright and golden from the light of two dozen candles. His flute glinted like a silver scepter on his desk.
“One day you you’ll burn down the house,” Lucian told him as he left.
Chapter 12
Harriet found him in his gymnastics room the next morning while he was busy pounding the sandbag to hell and back. He stopped punching the moment he noticed her, but his labored breathing was loud in the silence between them. The fierce blush rising above her collar was visible from across the room. Rather too flustered by the sight of a half-naked man, considering she had had his hand between her pretty thighs last night. He wiped his forearm across his brow and reluctantly reached for his shirtsleeves, which were draped over the ropes. His back and chest were hot and slick with sweat and the fine cotton garment stuck uncomfortably to his damp skin.
She hovered on the doorsill when he approached, clutching a flower to her breast.
“I came to thank you for the bouquet,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes.
Ballentine had it right about the flowers, then—at least she was here and speaking to him rather than hiding in her rooms. She was still a far cry from the perky miss he had first known, and it grated on him alongside his unspent lust. How bloody little he had planned for this, the time and effort it would take to get used to a wife. Specifically, a high-society wife, raised to be absurdly modest when supposedly their main use was to bear plenty of heirs and spares—no logic in that. Harriet wasn’t even cold. Last night she had said no, but she had been soft and wet, and presently she couldn’t keep her eyes off him: her gaze snuck furtively over his shoulders and lingered on the places where his shirt clung. But he reckoned she wouldn’t understand why she felt the urge to do so. She was twisting the flower stem between restless white fingers, and her neck was blotchy again.
“You looked very practiced in the ring,” she said as she dragged her gaze from his biceps to his face. “Is pugilism a pastime of yours?”
“Yes.”
“Is it how you broke your nose?”
“It was, yes.”
If she’d ask him how exactly it had happened, he would tell her the truth: it had been a bare-knuckle match against a mean beast of an Irish fellow when he had still boxed for money. He’d make himself decent for her if he must, put on his shirt and such, but this morning, he had decided to give up any pretense at being more refined than he was, because who was he fooling? Right now, he was contemplating stealing a kiss from her, coarse and sweaty as he was—he found he enjoyed kissing her, and in her pale face, her rosy lips drew his attention as though she had painted them.
Her lashes lowered. “I hadn’t meant to disturb your exercise,” she said. “I shall leave.”
“It’s no trouble.”
He glanced at the clock next to the door. It was surprisingly late, time for lunch soon. He took off his hand wraps and rolled them up, then he untied the leather string that held his hair in a knot at the back of his head. Harriet wasn’t leaving; her eyes were following his movements intently, and it occurred to him that she was an artist and probably trained to be far more observant than a regular person. Something to keep in mind.
“Have you eaten lunch yet?” he asked.
Her smile was apologetic. “I had a light breakfast just now.”
“You’re a late sleeper.” It shouldn’t surprise him—he’d gleaned that ladies often had a habit of sleeping until noon.
“I am,” she said. “I tend to work late and loathe rising early. Do you mind?”
“Nah.” An ill-rested woman across the table was hardly a useful addition to his morning, was it? “But I’m taking lunch in the East End at half past twelve,” he said. “Accompany me.”