Page 36 of The Lady is Trouble

“Careful with your favors. It seems like an apt plan.”

He grunted in lieu of comment as this was going nowhere.

“Thank goodness you’re with Lady Coswell for therightreasons.”

He stilled, turned to find Piper standing by the window, light cascading over her to settle in a butterscotch puddle on a floor dotted with a thousand colorful spills. Even in a crumpled gown that wasn’t the best fit and her hair an utter mess, she was so beautiful, so flawless, he took a helpless step back. “This is beginning to feel like a lover’s quarrel.”

Her shoulders lifted and sank beneath wrinkled silk. “I wouldn’t know, Jules.”

Although he’d guessed as much, her comment sent conflicting emotions through him. He looked away before she witnessed them. Jealousy; possession he had no right to feel. And absolute, cold, hardrelief. “Reasoning has no play here, Yank. It’s basic, goddamnneed. A small part of me is there. The rest is elsewhere.” He stabbed at the canvas as if the brush was a weapon, drops of paint splattering his fingers. “I’ve never given more, and I never will.”

“Small part there, the rest elsewhere,” she murmured. “Like your visions. A partial investment.”

He frowned, this having never occurred to him. He had prodigious control in some areas, little in others. But there wasalwaysan element of restraint, examination. He never let go. He needed her gift greatly to do so, but he had sacrificed to protect her.

He was without options. Move forward with help, stumble back alone.

“My waistcoat. By the door, I think.” His hand trembled, and he withdrew the bristles from the canvas. “Could you please…the money clip in the left pocket?”

He heard her cross the room, bare feet a soft tap over wood, carpet, then back to wood. When she got close, her scent overwhelmed the formidable one of linseed oil, turpentine, paint. Circling, ensnaring, making him question spilling his life like an open bottle of brandy at her feet.

Wordless, she waited, her gentle breaths mixing with the sound of his pounding pulse.

“I need your help. I don’t want to touch that”—he pointed an elbow to the clip she held in her hand—“without you.”

“Are you trying to make me angry? Jules, you don’t have to ask.”

Cleaning the bristles with a stained rag, he placed the brush back in the can. “Come. The sofa. Or the floor. Not here.” He shook his head. “Not near the paintings.”

“Julian?”

Her eyes were an extraordinary mix. Dark green, a patina you’d find in the most remote part of the forest, but upon keen inspection, dappled with enchanting specks the color of cinnamon. He doubted he could recreate them to even half their beauty if he tried. As he stood there deliberating, imagining a brush in his hand and her eyes unfurling beneath it, the gash in his shoulder began to thump in time to his heartbeat, pulling him back.

“Tell me,” she urged, her fingers curling around the clip. It was an expensive piece, a lion etched in silver on its front. Possibly a family crest. Humphrey had left the runner with the bills contained within, so they had not stooped to beatingandrobbing him.

Except of the clip.

“The League receives items from our contacts in various locations. I read them to ascertain whatever I can.” He dropped the rag to the floor. “I need to do that with this piece, but the visions are getting stronger. Or my gift is.”

She flipped the clip between her hands, her gaze drilling into him.

“I’ve lost consciousness twice, once hitting my head rather hard on the hearth in my study. Scared the life out of Finn, although he knows head wounds bleed like the very devil. I woke to find him retching in my rubbish bin. Pathetic nurse, that one.” With a crooked smile, he touched a faint mark on his temple. “My new motto: better to read in an open space.”

She pressed her lips together, struggling to gather her words as her cheeks flushed a lovely pale pink. “If you don’t tell me everything, Julian, so help me—”

“I’m getting trapped,” he said in a rush.

She lifted her hand, the money clip glinting in the sunlight. “Trapped?”

“I’m easily able to step into the otherworld. The problem is—”

“Stepping out.”

Leaving her, he went to one knee before the sofa. “Sharp edges and gifts”—he indicated the table as he shoved it aside—“are not a good match.”

She followed, lowering herself to the carpet. “Being trapped in a dashed vision isn’t cause for mirth, Jules.”

Ahead of what he suspected might follow, his gut started to ache, his hand to tremble. Closing his fingers into a tight fist, he settled back on his heels. “If you start to see something, somethingI’mseeing, damn it, cut it off, let me go.” His gaze met hers, defying her to look away. “If the experience transfers, I don’t care how lost I am,let me go.”