Page 17 of Unmasking the Diamond
Her huff carried all the force of impatience. “She is not stealing from me.”
“Did you give her the coins?”
She stopped abruptly, turning towards him with annoyance in her eyes. “And why, pray tell, is it any of your business what my maid is doing?”
He lifted his hands in mock defense. “I am merely curious.”
“Well, you will be curious longer,” she shot back and resumed walking.
He pressed a hand to his heart. “You wound me.”
“You will live.”
He fell into step beside her once more. “Most young ladies of thetonwould not even glance at the beggars, much less offer them coins. Yet your maid distributes freely and you say nothing.”
“I never said that.”
“No, but your actions speak otherwise. What do you gain by this generosity?”
Keeping her gaze straight ahead, she asked, “Why do you assume I gain anything?”
“Because you are spoiled and the very epitome of what every debutante wishes to be as the diamond.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
She shot him a sideways glance. “If you must know, I take all my earnings from my writing and give them to the poor. It isn’t much, but if I can ease their burdens, even for a moment, it is worth it.”
Luca stared at her, startled into silence. That was not the answer he had expected. Miss Winslow, the very image of vanity and hauteur, giving her secret earnings to the destitute? There was far more to her than her carefully polished exterior.
“That is admirable,” he admitted, unable to help himself.
“I don’t do it for approval—least of all yours,” she said. “Besides, I don’t need the income.”
For the second time that day, Luca caught himself wondering if he had misjudged Miss Winslow entirely. She was not merely the glittering diamond of the Season, nor the vain, sharp-tongued beauty she pretended to be. No. There was something else beneath the polished veneer, something he had not accounted for.
“You are an anomaly, Miss Winslow,” he said at last, unable to contain the thought.
She huffed, her chin lifting with practiced hauteur. “Don’t look at me like that.”
Baffled, he asked, “Like what?”
“Like you admire me.” The words almost came out as an accusation. Then, softer, with something approaching regret, she continued. “I wish I could do more, but without my brother knowing what I am about.”
“Would it be so terrible if Alcott discovered your secret?”
Her lashes lowered, shielding her gaze. “It would. He would start asking questions—questions I have no intention of answering.”
“I see,” Luca murmured, though in truth he did not see at all. There was a puzzle here, and puzzles begged to be solved. He leaned forward slightly, pressing just enough to test herdefenses. “Would your brother object to your giving coins to the poor?”
“No.”
“Then why the secrecy? What reasoning lies behind it?”
She raised her eyes. “Why are you so insistent on the matter? It doesn’t concern you in the least.”
“Perhaps not,” he conceded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “But I find it remarkable.” He nearly saidI find you remarkablebut swallowed the words. Too soon, too bold. She would bristle at the sentiment, and he had learned that bristling often ended with her storming away.
