Page 14 of To Heist and to Hold

Which should not have affected Ethan in the slightest. They were merely expressing respect for each other, after all.

Yet watching the two fawn over one another had Ethan seeing red.

Or, rather, green, though why that particular color had popped into his head he didn’t have a clue.

Before he knew what he was doing, he pushed between the two.

“Now that we have gotten that out of the way,” he said loudly, guiding them to the semi-circle of seats before the hearth, “let us see what you have come up with, Kendal. The sooner we finalize the design, the sooner we may begin promotions in earnest. We do not want to give Mrs. Finch a subpar welcome.”

Kendal flushed as he hurriedly reached for the rolled papers he had brought with him. “Of course, of course. My apologies. Let us get to it, then.”

The next minutes were spent going over the man’s work, discussing the changes that needed to be made, conferring about a timeline.

But though Ethan tried his hardest to focus solely on the work at hand, time and time again he found his eyes drawn to Mrs. Marlow.

That small divot between her brows as she focused should not be so attractive.

The line of her neck as she bent her head to look closely at Kendal’s artwork should not be so alluring.

And he should most definitely not wish to press his lips to the small hollow behind her ear.

He had never in his life had such trouble focusing on work as he had in that torturous quarter hour, and so it was almost with relief that, upon the completion of their meeting, he saw Kendal out of his office.

Then he turned back to the room and spied Mrs. Marlow gazing at him, and he recalled that the worst was, in fact, yet to come.

She should not feel this nervous about being alone with Mr. Sinclaire.

Well, perhaps she should be at least a bit nervous. After all, she was planning on taking this man, one powerful in both body and status, to her bed. And she finally had him alone.

Yet as he turned back to her and gazed at her with those piercing dark eyes shadowed by his heavy brow, a brow that was knotted in consternation more times than not when he looked at her, she knew this was more than nervousness roiling in her gut.

There was something else underlying it, a vibrating energy deep in her bones that she could not begin to understand.

Why did this man affect her as he did? He was the means to an end, nothing more.

And now that she finally had him not only alone, but in the more private area of the club, she was not going to turn tail and run.

No, she was going to see this through, come hell or high water.

Remembering everything Euphemia had told her about how to gain a man’s attention—though thus far that advice had not seemed to affect Mr. Sinclaire at all—she made a concerted effort to relax her body into languid lines, dropping her shoulders from where they had inched up near her ears, letting her hands fall elegantly over the arms of her chair, easing her features into a look of heavy-lidded interest.

“Mr. Kendal is a master at his craft,” she murmured, in that husky tone Euphemia had tutored her to use.

“His work is nothing short of wonderful. I do believe it will prove the much-needed draw for Mrs. Finch’s match.

” She smiled. “Not that holding it here at Dionysus isn’t a draw in and of itself. ”

“Yes, Kendal is worth his weight in gold,” Mr. Sinclaire said. But he did not move from his spot at the open door.

Heloise’s smile faltered. Was he avoiding being near her?

Did he find her repulsive? The thought polluted her mind with uncertainty and not a small amount of self-pity.

She had spent more than three decades looking at her reflection in the glass and already knew she was not what most men—if any—wanted.

But no, she reminded herself, it did not matter how plain she was.

What mattered was the confidence that she could successfully seduce this man.

As Euphemia had said, confidence could do much to garner the interest of another.

No matter how utterly false—not to mention foreign and uncomfortable—that confidence felt.

“Are you waiting for something?” she asked in a tone that was much calmer than she felt. Thank goodness her voice, at least, would not betray her nerves.

“Waiting? Ah, yes.” He cleared his throat. “The food should be here momentarily.”

As if he had magicked the meal into being, a maid appeared behind him just then with a tray.

“Mr. Sinclaire, sir,” the girl piped, “Mr. Teagan said to bring up food.”

He flinched, cheeks darkening, before he turned and took the tray from the girl. “Thank you, Mary,” he murmured.

The girl smiled brightly, with a quick bobbing curtsy and a curious sideways glance for Heloise, before she hurried back down the hall.

“What perfect timing,” he said as he returned to the semicircle of seats. Heloise blinked. Was that a hint of sarcasm in his voice? But no, his expression remained neutral as he deposited the tray on the low table.

“This looks delicious,” she said as Mr. Sinclaire removed the silver lids from the dishes.

And indeed it did look delicious. The plates were piled high with myriad breads and fluffy yellow eggs and thick slices of pink ham that had her mouth watering.

And that was not the only sustenance they had been provided.

Dionysus’s kitchens, it seemed, had thought of everything.

There were steaming cups of dark coffee, a small pitcher of chocolate, pots of butter and jam, fresh fruit.

The morning fare at the Wimpole Street house was satisfying, but it was also plain, the menu created by Strachan and reflecting the woman’s no-nonsense way of living, something she had brought with her from her beloved Highlands.

Indeed, throughout Heloise’s life she had eaten similarly, the focus on sustenance rather than decadence, survival instead of excess.

Until her arrival at Wimpole Street, she’d never had a choice but to live in such a way.

This, however, was on a whole other level. The savory and sweet smells wrapped about her like a warm hug as he placed one of the plates before her. At which, to her utter mortification, her stomach gave a loud rumble of appreciation.

He paused, hand outstretched with a cup of coffee for her, eyes flying to meet hers.

Face hot, she dipped her head in thanks, taking the cup from him.

She should perhaps have focused as she did so and turned their inevitable brush of fingers into something seductive.

Instead, however, her mind had been filled with embarrassment over her body’s unwelcome auditory reaction to the food, and so when their fingers did touch, there was no deliberate caress meant to entice.

She jumped, and he jumped, and the coffee, in the ensuing chaos, did as well, sloshing over the side of the cup—right onto Mr. Sinclaire’s hand.

The man sucked in a sharp breath. Heloise, her mortification mingled now with concern, hurriedly took the cup and placed it down, lurching forward to take his hand in hers, dabbing gently at it with a napkin.

“Oh dear,” she fretted, looking over his reddening skin. “Oh goodness. Mr. Sinclaire, are you quite all right? Does it hurt very much?”

The man said not a word, which in and of itself should not have been strange.

He seemed to not be particularly verbose, after all.

Yet as she tended to his hand, the silence stretched on, becoming heavier with each passing moment.

And when his fingers, those long, scarred fingers, suddenly curled around her own as if of their own volition, enveloping her in heat that did not have anything to do with the hot liquid that had recently bathed his skin, she froze and looked up—into sharp, dark eyes that seemed to pierce her very soul.

How long the moment stretched she would never know.

All she did know was that the combination of his gaze on hers and the clasp of his fingers seemed to stop time itself.

It was long moments before she became aware of anything but him, and only because he finally blinked, breaking the spell, and pulled back from her.

But why did that last drag of his hand against hers make her want to cry?

He cleared his throat. “No harm done,” he said in a deep rasp before, eyes dropping away from hers, he took up his fork and dug into his food, shoveling it into his mouth as if he could not eat fast enough. It was as loud as words: He wished to eat quickly and get back to work.

But Heloise, finally back to her senses now that the charged moment had passed, was not going to give up this chance so easily.

“It appears I do not have to make good on my promise to Mr. Teagan after all.”

Food halfway to his mouth, he glanced sharply up at her, eyes hard. The bit of egg impaled by his fork quivered in the air. “Promise?” he demanded. “What promise?”

She blinked. That was most assuredly not the reaction she had expected. More than a little baffled, she nevertheless tried for a smile. “That I should make certain you eat. It seems to me you are making good progress yourself without any assistance from me.”

He looked at his fork and then at his plate blankly, as if he had not even realized he had been eating. “Ah,” he finally said. “Yes, I suppose not.”

“It is kind of Mr. Teagan to wish to make certain you eat.”

He shrugged. “It is of benefit to him, and so he does what he must.”

That took her aback. “Of benefit to him?”

Again a shrug, his mouth tightening at the corners as if in pain. With his fork he began pushing about the remainder of his food. “It would not do anyone any good if I were to keel over from malnutrition, would it?”