Page 31 of The Marriage Method

“Why?” Nell asked in return. “Have you changed your mind about publishing a story about the school? Or is this simply more information you require to sate your boundless curiosity?”

His frown transformed into a swift scowl. “You do realize that I have a reporter’s murder to solve, a newspaper to run, and a staff to convince that I’m not a conscienceless ravisher? Whatever curiosity I had about the charity school yesterday has been amply exhausted in those regards.”

“Not all, obviously,” she said.

“I’m concerned about you,” he retorted. “We are married, as you said.”

“Yes, but—”

“I can’t have you traipsing aimlessly about the slum alone, prey for any villain who crosses your path. You’re too…too…”

Nell’s shoulders tensed, bracing for the inevitable masculine censure. “Helpless?” she supplied. “Naïve? Incapable?”

“Beautiful,” he said. “You’re too damned beautiful.”

The growing indignation in Nell’s breast fizzled away like a deflated balloon.

He wasn’t the first to call her beautiful. As compliments went, it was the least original she’d encountered. And yet she’d never been called beautiful by him. Other than the arrested stare he’d given her when she’d lifted her veil in his office, he hadn’t acknowledged her looks at all.

“Oh,” she replied. “That.”

“Yes, that,” he said.

Nell smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle in the fabric of her skirt. “Being beautiful isn’t a liability. Not even in the East End.”

“No? What would you call it?”

“A weapon,” she said.

Miles fixed her with his enigmatic gaze. “So, I was right. You were the heavy artillery.”

Nell’s mouth quirked. She’d forgotten he’d said that. “Not where you were concerned, clearly. My charms—ample as they are—had no apparent effect on you.”

“We met for the first time yesterday morning,” he said.

“Your point being?”

His expression was dour. “Today we’re married.”

He was so solemn and grumpy, Nell was tempted to laugh. “That had less to do with my charms and more to do with your cat,” she said. “As you’re well aware.”

“Yet here we are.”

“Exactly so.” She grew serious again. “And as our train will be stopping in the vicinity, and as I’m more than capable of taking care of myself—”

“If you tell me what it is you’re trying to accomplish,” he interrupted, “perchance I can assist you.”

“Why would you?” she wondered. “The Academy’s problems aren’t your problems.”

“You’re my problem,” he said.

“How romantic,” she remarked under her breath.

The two words were an inaudible murmur, lost amid the roaring clang of metal as the train rattled loudly down the track. And yet—

Miles managed to hear them. He gave her a scorching look in reply.

A rush of heat flooded through her in its wake, making her cheeks warm and her toes curl in her sensible half boots. She’d been stared at before. Ogled and admired by everyone from the local village lads to the aged members of the parish council. But no gentleman yet had ever regarded her with such blazing, single-minded intensity.