Page 100 of Immortal Rose

His gaze sharpened, intrigued. “Impression?”

“Well, for instance—Fleming plays the violin, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” Foxcourt answered, surprise flickering over his face. “He plays once a month with a quartet and for us on holidays.”

“I can smell the strings of his instrument. That’s definable,” I said. “But then you have someone like Reddy.”

All at once, Foxcourt’s entire bearing turned cautious. He managed an interested “Oh?”

“I know he buys his boots from that shop on Terrace Street and that he prefers his cheroots with a hint of clove and so on,” I said. “But then there’s a heaviness that underscores it—something churning, like a midnight storm. Whatever it represents, that’s his key, isn’t it?”

The earl was momentarily speechless, his throat working as if to swallow the secret back into the vault of his heart. “I couldn’t betray his trust,” he said, finally. “Ask, and he may tell you.”

“I just might. Perhaps I’ll try your tactic of remaining aloof,” I said. “It’s an effective way to unnerve someone and get them to prattle on and fill that silence with clues about themselves while you protect your own key.”

And I suspected I knew exactly what event had created Foxcourt’s key. The reason he fought so hard to control everything around him, to anticipate every need. It had to be connected to Glenmoor, and to his mother.

Where did you go those months when you vanished as a boy? I was desperate to ask him. Who decodes you?

Foxcourt chuckled, looking a little too pleased. “Noticed that, did you?”

“I fear you’ve become predictable, my lord,” I said, that little laugh rocking me like a wave beneath a boat. “What do you think caused the duke’s key?”

“I don’t know that it was any one thing,” Foxcourt said. “My father was frequently away, and his first wife had little interest in children, especially after her first and only nearly killed her. Monsters have been born from less, I suppose, though few are as conceited.”

“Are you so certain it actually is pride and arrogance?” I asked, curious. “It strikes me that someone with that sort of key—needing validation from others—might actually be quite emotionally fragile underneath it all.”

“Not fragile enough,” Foxcourt said dryly.

There was much I could have said to that, including that it must have rattled Glenmoor to see another son—a rival—born to a woman who wanted that child. Afraid he might pull back if I tried to dig deeper, I changed tack.

“I suppose you’ve already figured out my key,” I said.

His smile returned, warm and intimate. “Every time I think I have it, you surprise me.”

Neither of us seemed to want to acknowledge that our hands were a scant hair from each other on the table. I’d need only to let my smallest finger drift just that little bit to the right to hook over his. There was a healing scab on it, I saw. Bruising on the others. I didn’t know why I was surprised; he might have been a toff, but he was a man who courted fights. Relished them.

“Yes, well,” I said, after I’d mustered a bit of steadiness, “I live to confound and torment.”

“On the contrary,” he murmured. “I find you endlessly fascinating. Maddening.” The edge of his finger ghosted along mine. “Enthralling.”

Had he—had he breathed out the last, or had I only imagined it? My thoughts vanished like watercolors soaked with rain. That heat was winding through me again, dark tendrils of it spreading out over my skin in sinuous paths. Over my breasts. Over the soft skin of my thighs.

Emotion had built to a nearly intolerable degree, shuddering with promise as he leaned that little bit closer—or had I? One moment I’d been part of the world, and now it was only the two of us, sharing breath. His knee pressed against mine below the table. His pupils flared as his gaze lowered to my lips.

A frightening stab of yearning overwhelmed me, and I was powerless against it. The thought blazed through my mind like a star. I want you.

But the words that emerged from my trembling lips were “I hate you.”

He smiled, pulling back, neatly tearing through the moment that had settled over us. “Then we are in accord, madam.”

I wondered if the disorientation I felt now was what I would have felt, had I been able to drink myself into oblivion. I surfaced roughly, as confused as if I had found myself in a new world. Even the air felt different against my flushed, sensitive skin.

It was a moment before I realized he’d been speaking of his feelings for himself, not me. I floundered, fighting the absurd instinct to disagree despite having been the one to voice it first. Because of course I didn’t hate him. Not in the way I should have. I hated my changing feelings and what it did to my pride to admit that my body responded to his as surely as if they were connected by some unseen tether. Even as one of us pulled away, it only brought the other nearer. It was utterly provoking.

Fascinating. Maddening. Enthralling. Exactly what I might have said about him.

My gaze slid away as I muttered, “Cunning bastard.”