“I’m honored, Miss Cassia.” Even in the tiny room, he was too close to her, too sure of himself, the way he had been when they were examining the painting. He crooked his arm for her to take.
She ignored it, sailing ahead of him and across the black-and-white marble floor of the front hall.
“This is our drawing room, Mr. Blackley,” she said with a perfunctory sweep of her hand when he joined her. “Where gentlemen may gather for conversation, or to read the latest news.”
“You’ve no right to be angry with me,” he said. “They made the scene, not I. None of it was my doing.”
“Oh, no, how could you ever be at fault?” She kept her eyes straight ahead, fighting her own temper. “As you see, Mr. Blackley, we have furnished the drawing room for both comfort and fashion, wishing our gentlemen to feel at their ease.”
“Is this still about the damned painting?” he asked, his voice low so the others around him wouldn’t overhear, though the irritation in his words was unmistakable. “You still believe somehow that I cheated you?”
Cassia stared pointedly at the empty place over the fireplace where the painting should have gone. “You were not honest with me, Mr. Blackley. At the showing before the auction, you let me babble on like a ninny over that picture, not even hinting that you were interested in it for yourself!”
“You weren’t exactly honest with me, either,” he said. “Was the mourning supposed to buy my sympathy?”
“The mourning was in honor of my father.”
“And now that you’ve grieved, you put it aside to bare as much skin as any other actress.”
“We put it aside because it would have seemed too grim for tonight,” she explained defensively, wondering why he should care so much. “Father would have understood.”
He chuckled, scornful. “That may be what you told the gossip sheets, but I ask you, what kind of father would leave his daughters a place like this?”
“A father who wished his daughters to do good in an evil world, no matter what the avenue.” She swallowed back the emotion that knotted in her throat. “My father was a good man, Mr. Blackley, and honorable and kind in ways someone like you could never understand.”
“You don’t know that, lass,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “You don’t know anything of me at all.”
“I know enough,” she said quickly, her heart racing for no reason. “And I know more than enough not to trust you.”
She hurried ahead, her expression so fixed that she scarcely noticed how the other gentlemen were stepping aside for her to pass.
“I’m sorry about your father.” His long legs easily kept pace with her. “And I like your gown, much better than I did the mourning. But I didn’t mean that—”
“Of course you did, Mr. Blackley,” she said, her careful facade of gentility slipping. “Why else would you have said it in the first place if you didn’t?”
“Then you have changed my mind,” he said. “Or am I not permitted to apologize?”
“This—this is our dining room, sir,” she said. She did not believe a single letter of his apology, nor could she let herself slip into that kind of trap. She must keep formal and remote; she must not let herself say what she wanted, especially not to this man. “There is my second sister near the table with the cold offerings. She oversees the kitchen, and you will find her offerings rival anything served in London tonight. Do you wish to dine, Mr. Blackley? Shall I summon a waiter to take your request?”
“I’m not hungry,” he whispered over her shoulder, his words coming unsettlingly close to her ear.
With her fan fluttering in her hand like an anxious butterfly, she twisted around to try to put more distance between them. But turning around only made it worse: now they stood face-to-face, her eyes level with his throat and his perfectly knotted dark-crimson neckcloth, his dark hair mussed and curling over his collar.
“Are you thirsty, then? The evening is—is warm, sir.” But it wasn’t the evening that was warm, not with him standing so close, and she worked to keep her words even. “Perhaps you would wish a selection from our excellent cellar? A glass of port, or—or canary?”
He shook his head, just a fraction. “That’s not why I came here, lass.”
“Miss Penny, sir.” She corrected him unthinkingly with the explanation that Amariah had prepared for them all, concentrating instead on the slight sheen of a dark beard along his jaw. A pirate, a pirate from Barbados. “I am sorry, sir, but for the sake of the house’s decorum, I must ask you to call me that, and nothing else.”
“Very well,” he said. “Then that’s not why I came here, Miss Penny, lass.”
“That’s wrong, sir, and no better.” She sighed, a small, breathy exhale, and glanced down at the blades of her fan. How strange to be standing here with him like this, surrounded by an ever shifting crowd of black-clad gentlemen, laughing, calling, swearing, jostling, like a noisy tide around them. “For the decorum of the house, I must ask—”
“Damn the decorum of the house. That’s not the same woman who crossed me today.” He closed his fingers over the top of her fan, stilling its restless motion. “You can do better than that.”
She thought of all the answers she could make, and how not one of them was either decorous or appropriate. “So you did follow me here?”
“I wish that I’d been that clever,” he said. His gaze had shifted from her face to the fashionably low neckline of her gown, lingering there. “I’d no notion you’d be here tonight. But when I saw you, there at the top of the railing—ah, you seemed like an angel high over my head. Can you fault me for wanting to stay?”
She had to stop this now, before anyone noticed. She tugged her fan free of his hand, and turned toward the stairs.
“Of course you must wish to see the gaming rooms, Mr. Blackley.” She raised her voice so others would hear her. “Up these stairs, sir, and you shall find the hazard table. If you wish to play, I shall introduce you myself to Mr. Walthrip, the table’s director, and he can introduce you to the—”
“I’m not playing.” He stopped on the step below her, making her stop as well. “Not tonight.”
“But what of that story you told my sister, about how you’d stolen some poor gentleman’s house away from him?”
“I didn’t steal it, Miss Penny. I won it.” Standing on the stairs, their eyes were nearly level. He wasn’t smiling now, and with a shiver Cassia thought again of a pirate. “Luck has been very good to me, and like every good mistress, I don’t treat her lightly.”
“Then surely you would wish to play tonight of all others, Mr. Blackley.” She tried to smile, but what had worked so effortlessly with Lord Russell seemed forced and false with Richard Blackley. “In honor of Penny House’s opening, that is.”
“Or else I will not be welcomed back?” His gray eyes seemed cold, almost ruthless. “If I do not play and promise to lose, like every other good little titled gentlemen of breeding and no brains here tonight, then you won’t speak on my behalf again, will you?”
“I didn’t say that!” she protested, but he hadn’t waited for her answer, and had already passed her on the stairs. “Mr. Blackley, please!”
She grabbed her skirts to one side and hurried after him, dodging between other men gathered on the stairs. By the time she reached the top, he had disappeared into the noisiest and most crowded of the gaming rooms, the one with the hazard table. Although the gentlemen in the doorway stepped aside for her, she hung back.
Pratt had advised