Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(23)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Winter waited a moment to make sure she wouldn’t turn back and then stripped off his coat and waistcoat. It was brought home with forceful memory that he’d been nude before this woman only a sennight ago.

Even if she didn’t know it.

His breeches followed and then he was in shirtsleeves and smalls. He glanced at the tailor.

“The shirt as well, sir,” Mr. Hurt said. “The fashion is for a tight-fitting waistcoat and coat.”

“Yes, indeed,” Lady Beckinhall called over her shoulder, “I want the suit to be in the first stare of fashion.”

Winter grimaced but took off his shirt.

The tailor nodded. “That shall do for now, sir.”

Winter stood with arms outstretched, feeling exceptionally silly as the tailor moved about him, wielding a measuring tape.

“Have you been practicing flattery?” Lady Beckinhall asked just as the tailor’s thumb, holding the tape, pushed up the lower edge of Winter’s smallclothes.

“As per your instructions,” Winter replied, watching as Mr. Hurt caught sight of the end of the scar revealed by the rucked smalls.

The tailor hesitated, then continued his work.

Lady Beckinhall sighed very quietly.

Winter’s attention snapped back to her. “I am in admiration of the way in which you can order tea so very… er… efficiently, my lady.”

Mr. Hurt shot him a pitying look.

There was a slight pause.

“Thank you, Mr. Makepeace.” Lady Beckinhall’s voice was choked. “I must say, you give the most imaginative compliments.”

“Your tutelage has inspired me, ma’am.”

The tailor looked doubtful.

Winter cleared his throat. “And, of course, who would not be, ah… exhilarated by the loveliness of your countenance and form.”

He arched an eyebrow at Mr. Hurt.

The tailor made a face as if to say, Not bad.

Which was probably as good as Winter was likely to get at this art.

But Lady Beckinhall wasn’t done. Her head had tilted to the side at his words, making some type of jeweled ornament in her glossy dark hair sparkle in the light. “My form, Mr. Makepeace?”

Ah, this was dangerous territory. “Yes, your form, my lady. It is a strong and feminine form, but I think you already know that.”

She chuckled, low and husky, sending shivers over his arms. “Yes, but a lady never tires of hearing compliments, sir. You must keep that fact in mind.”

Her little maid nodded vigorously in agreement.

“Indeed?” Winter stared at Lady Beckinhall’s back, wishing he could see her face. Her plump mouth would be curved slightly in amusement, her blue eyes dancing. His body reacted at the thought and he was heartily glad that Mr. Hurt had moved to his back.

“But you must be awash in a sea of compliments, my lady,” Winter said. “Every gentleman you meet must voice his admiration, his wish to make love to you. And those are only the ones who may voice such thoughts. All about you are men who cannot speak their admiration, who must remain mute from lack of social standing or fear of offending you. Only their thoughts light the air about you, following you like a trail of perfume, heady but invisible.”

He heard her startled inhale.

The maid sighed dreamily.

Mr. Hurt had stopped his quick, capable movements, but at Winter’s glance, he blinked and resumed his work.

“Thank you, Mr. Makepeace,” Lady Beckinhall said quietly. “That… that was quite wonderful.”

He shrugged, though she couldn’t see him. “I only speak the truth.”

“Do you…” She hesitated, then said throatily, “Do you think me shallow for enjoying such compliments?”

Her back was confident and straight, but her neck, bared by her upswept hair, was white and slim and held a hint of vulnerability. She was so forthright, so assured of herself that he’d not noticed the tender spot before.

“I think you sometimes like to hide behind a facade of gaiety, my lady.” He cleared his throat. “I also think that when you enter a room, all eyes turn to you. You blaze like a torch, lighting the darkest corners, brightening even those who thought they were already well lit. You bring joy and mirth and leave behind a glow that gives hope to those you’ve left.”

“And you, Mr. Makepeace? Are you one of those who thought themselves well lit?”

“I am as dark as a pit.” Now he was glad her back was turned. “Even your torch will have difficulty lighting my depths.”

A DARK PIT? Isabel couldn’t help but turn around at Mr. Makepeace’s words.

He stood, arms outstretched to either side, as Mr. Hurt measured the length of his sleeve. She caught her breath. The pose was a living Vitruvian Man sketch. And, like a masterpiece by da Vinci, his bare chest was a work of art. Muscles rolled over his outstretched arms, the veins at his biceps clearly delineated. The plains of his chest were smooth and broad. Only a sprinkle of curling hair was scattered between his dark nipples, while thicker tufts grew under his arms.

Isabel found her breath quickening at the sight. This was wrong, she knew. She shouldn’t stare at the man. Shouldn’t wonder how a schoolmaster had come to be so wonderfully muscled. It was as if he’d dropped a layer of concealment along with his clothes. His form was as masculinely lovely as that of the last nude man she’d seen—the Ghost of St. Giles. As her eyes dropped to his legs, he pivoted slightly, hiding his right thigh. For a moment her eyes narrowed.

The tailor gave a little gasp, bringing Isabel out of her reverie. Her gaze flew up to meet Mr. Makepeace’s eyes. Despite his insistence that she turn her back when he disrobed, he showed no trace of embarrassment now at standing in front of her in only his smalls.

His eyes met hers, proud and challenging, but she could see at the back those depths he spoke of.

“Why are you a pit of darkness?” she asked.

He shrugged, his shoulders moving elegantly. “I live and work in the bleakest part of London, my lady. Here people beg, steal, and prostitute themselves, trying to obtain the most basic of human needs: food, water, shelter, and clothing. They have no time to lift their heads up from their toil, no time to live as human beings, graced with God’s gifts of laughter and love.”

He’d dropped his arms as he spoke, unconsciously stepping closer to her. Now he raised his hand and pointed to the ceiling, the muscles on his forearm rigid. “Peach still lies abed above. She was abandoned and used. A child who should’ve been cherished and loved as the very embodiment of all that is good in this world. That is what St. Giles is. That is what I live in. Wouldn’t you find it strange, therefore, if I capered and skipped? Laughed and giggled?”