Page 20 of Where the Heart Leads
She eyed him as if evaluating her chances of dismissing his offer, yet he was quite sure she understood it was no offer, but a statement of fact. Eventually, her lips—forever distracting—eased. “Very well. Shall we say eleven o’clock?”
He inclined his head. “And we’ll see what we can find.”
Looking up, he whirled her through a turn, then started back up the room. Another glance at her face confirmed she was enjoying the dance as much as he.
She was, even in this, the antithesis of the norm. Most young ladies were tentative; even when they were excellent dancers they were passive, not just allowing but relying on a gentleman to steer them around the floor. Penelope had no truck with passivity—not even during a waltz. Even though, after those first few steps, she’d consented to him leading, the fluid tension that invested her slender limbs, the energy with which she matched his stride, made the dance a shared endeavor, an activity to which they both contributed, making the experience a mutual, shared pleasure.
He would happily dance half the night with her…
Abruptly, he hauled his mind off the track of considering what different dances they might indulge in. That wasn’t why he was waltzing with her. She was Luc Ashford’s sister, and his association with her was purely driven by his investigation.
Wasn’t it?
He looked down at her face as he swirled her to a halt—at those ruby lips slightly parted, at her lovely eyes and the madonnalike face that no amount of severe grooming would ever disguise—and wondered just how truthful he was being.
How willfully blind.
She stepped out of his arms. He let them fall and smiled—charmingly. “Thank you.”
Smiling in return, she inclined her head. “You waltz very well—much better than I’d expected.”
He noted the dimple in her left cheek. “I’m delighted to have been of service.”
She chuckled at the dry reply.
Taking her hand, he set it on his sleeve and turned her toward the drawing room. “Come—I’ll return you to your mother. And then I must leave.”
He did. As he walked from the drawing room, he felt a certain contentment from his evening’s entertainment—something he very definitely hadn’t expected, either.
Penelope watched his broad shoulders until he passed out of sight. Only then did she even bother to try to marshal her wits and assess the situation.
When she did…“Damn!”She muttered the word beneath her breath. She could find no fault with Barnaby Adair—not in his investigative capabilities, nor yet, and most surprisingly, in his gentlemanly attributes. That was not a good sign. Normally, certainly after she’d conversed with a gentleman twice, she’d already dismissed him from her mind.
Barnaby Adair she couldn’t dismiss. Not least because he wouldn’t be dismissed.
Quite what she was going to do about him she didn’t know, but it was patently clear she would have to do something. It was either take some action to nullify his effect, or continue to suffer her wayward wits and wretchedly preoccupied senses.
The latter wasn’t an option. And until she accomplished the former, she wasn’t—clearly wasn’t—going to be able to manage him as she wished.
5
The next morning at nine o’clock, Inspector Basil Stokes stood on the pavement in St. John’s Wood High Street, staring at the door of a small shop. After a moment, he squared his shoulders, walked up the two steps, opened the door, and went inside.
A bell above the door jangled; two girls working at a bench at the rear of the narrow rectangular space looked up. They blinked, then exchanged quick glances. One—Stokes took her for the elder—laid aside the bonnet she was trimming and came forward to the small counter.
Hesitantly she asked, “Can I help you, sir?”
He could understand her confusion; he wasn’t the usual run of customer for a milliner’s establishment. Glancing around, he almost winced at the feathers, lace, ribbons, and fripperies draped over pegs and adorning hats of various shapes. He felt comprehensively out of place, as if he’d stepped uninvited into a lady’s boudoir.
Returning his gaze to the girl’s round face, he stated, “I’m here to see Miss Martin. Is she in?”
The girl eyed him nervously. “Who shall I say wants her, sir?”
He was about to give his title, then realized Griselda—Miss Martin—would likely not appreciate her staff knowing she was being visited by the police. “Mr. Stokes. I daresay she’ll remember me. I’d like a moment of her time, if she can spare it.”
Like many others, the girl couldn’t decide his social status; she bobbed a curtsy just to play safe. “I’ll ask.”
She disappeared through a heavy curtain that cut off the back of the shop. Stokes looked around. Two mirrors hung along one wall. He caught sight of himself in one, framed by confections of feathers and lace, fake flowers and spangles displayed on the wall behind him. He quickly looked away.
