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Light fingers, fast feet, a quick wit and empathy for the downtrodden—none of these qualities will help Miss Francis ‘Flightly’ Headley fit in with Regency Society. They are perfect for a young woman helping the infamous Hestia Wright at Half Moon House, however. And they might be exactly what is needed to find Hestia’s long-lost son.
Lost is Mr. Rhys Caradec’s preferred state. An artist and a hedonist, he lives his life exactly as he wishes—unfettered and free. He has no interest in either of his warring parents, but finds himself unexpectedly fascinated with his mother’s assistant. Each believes they can bring the other around to their way of thinking. Both recognize the rising passion between them—but they are far too different, their circumstances too convoluted, for them to ever fall in love . . . |
Excerpt
“What are you thinking about?” he asked—and she turned to find him examining her again.
She blinked. “I was wondering what they would think.” She gestured. “The people of the city. Surely they are used to great artists coming here—but likely to paint the palaces, the churches, and the views. What would they say, if they knew you were thinking of painting their gargoyles?”
He shrugged. “I should think they’d be happy enough. They love their capital, and the gargoyles and grotesques are just another wonderfully unique aspect of it.” Eyeing her askance, he continued. “And in any case, the people here rather remind me of their gargoyles.”
She snorted. “Weathered?” she asked quietly, indicating old Mab’s retreating form.
“Enduring,” he corrected. “And unique. Fanciful, but practical about it, at the same time.”
Slowly, she nodded. “Yes. I think I know what you mean.” She gazed at him, sure that this must be the strangest conversation she’d ever had—and equally sure she wanted it to go on. “Is that always how you choose what to paint? Wander about until something strikes you?”
“Yes. That’s exactly how I do it.” He laughed. “Do you disapprove? I’m sorry to tell you that I am likely exactly what your elders always warned you about.” He waggled his brows. “The insidious, itinerant artist.”
He said it like she should picture him with horns. But in truth, he was a far cry from what she’d grown up worrying about. She had no desire to start that conversation, however. She let him continue, instead.
“I wander.” He threw an arm skyward. “I go where my urges take me and I stop when I find something interesting, beautiful or meaningful.”
It sounded . . . She wasn’t even sure how such an existence sounded, so opposite it was from her own. Wonderful? Terrifying? Free?
He was studying her again. “Sometimes,” he said softly. “Sometimes the thing that is interesting, beautiful and meaningful—is a person.”
Perhaps he was trying to unnerve her. Her. She almost laughed out loud.
Except, damn him, it was working.
She stood. She wasn’t a street rat any longer. Hestia was teaching her many things—including how to understand a situation and help mold it to suit her purposes. She hadn’t come all this way to let Caradec scare her off. She was here on a mission. She would tell him about Hestia, convince him to establish a relationship with her.
“You said yesterday that if I found you today, we could speak. I could tell you why I’ve come.”
He sighed. A big, massive breath full of resignation. “I did. And you could. But we don’t have to, do we?”
“We do. At some point.”
“It’s bound to be unpleasant,” he warned. “And this—this has been exceedingly pleasant. I’m very aware that you must have come from one of two persons—neither of which I’m interested in hearing from. I’ll be irritated and you’ll be frustrated.” He shook his head. “Instead of ending our . . . acquaintance . . . on a sour note—wouldn’t you rather put it off, and perhaps . . . do this again?”
Search him out again? Meet the challenge he’d thrown out at her? Sit in the sun and talk with him? Share a meal and learn a bit about him, again?
She stood up. Perhaps that’s what she needed to make this work. It might help to know more of him. She could gauge the best way to approach what was sure to be a sticky subject.
She wasn’t intimidated. Or intrigued.
Oh, saints. She was a little of both. But she’d handled far more difficult situations.
“How old are you?” he demanded, looking up at her.
She sighed. “Older than my years.”
He nodded, as if he approved of this answer. “Going somewhere?” he asked.
“Home.”
Silence stretched out for a few moments. It felt heavy with . . . what? Disappointment? Expectation?
She straightened. “Not to worry, though, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He laughed. “Perhaps.”
“Oh, don’t doubt it,” she said loftily, and then she turned on her heel and walked away.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
“Flightly!” he called.
She looked back.
He was on his feet.
“Are we going to do this?” His voice carried down the curve in the street. “Enter into this . . .” His hand waved in the air.
She pressed her lips together. He was asking about more than just their game of hide-and-seek. But how much more? She had no idea—was suddenly afraid that she couldn’t even yet conceive of all that he meant—but she burned to know.
She nodded.
“I won’t hold back,” he warned. “I’m going to give you a run for your money.”
She tossed her head. “You can try.”
Then she blended into the traffic and disappeared.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked—and she turned to find him examining her again.
She blinked. “I was wondering what they would think.” She gestured. “The people of the city. Surely they are used to great artists coming here—but likely to paint the palaces, the churches, and the views. What would they say, if they knew you were thinking of painting their gargoyles?”
He shrugged. “I should think they’d be happy enough. They love their capital, and the gargoyles and grotesques are just another wonderfully unique aspect of it.” Eyeing her askance, he continued. “And in any case, the people here rather remind me of their gargoyles.”
She snorted. “Weathered?” she asked quietly, indicating old Mab’s retreating form.
“Enduring,” he corrected. “And unique. Fanciful, but practical about it, at the same time.”
Slowly, she nodded. “Yes. I think I know what you mean.” She gazed at him, sure that this must be the strangest conversation she’d ever had—and equally sure she wanted it to go on. “Is that always how you choose what to paint? Wander about until something strikes you?”
“Yes. That’s exactly how I do it.” He laughed. “Do you disapprove? I’m sorry to tell you that I am likely exactly what your elders always warned you about.” He waggled his brows. “The insidious, itinerant artist.”
He said it like she should picture him with horns. But in truth, he was a far cry from what she’d grown up worrying about. She had no desire to start that conversation, however. She let him continue, instead.
“I wander.” He threw an arm skyward. “I go where my urges take me and I stop when I find something interesting, beautiful or meaningful.”
It sounded . . . She wasn’t even sure how such an existence sounded, so opposite it was from her own. Wonderful? Terrifying? Free?
He was studying her again. “Sometimes,” he said softly. “Sometimes the thing that is interesting, beautiful and meaningful—is a person.”
Perhaps he was trying to unnerve her. Her. She almost laughed out loud.
Except, damn him, it was working.
She stood. She wasn’t a street rat any longer. Hestia was teaching her many things—including how to understand a situation and help mold it to suit her purposes. She hadn’t come all this way to let Caradec scare her off. She was here on a mission. She would tell him about Hestia, convince him to establish a relationship with her.
“You said yesterday that if I found you today, we could speak. I could tell you why I’ve come.”
He sighed. A big, massive breath full of resignation. “I did. And you could. But we don’t have to, do we?”
“We do. At some point.”
“It’s bound to be unpleasant,” he warned. “And this—this has been exceedingly pleasant. I’m very aware that you must have come from one of two persons—neither of which I’m interested in hearing from. I’ll be irritated and you’ll be frustrated.” He shook his head. “Instead of ending our . . . acquaintance . . . on a sour note—wouldn’t you rather put it off, and perhaps . . . do this again?”
Search him out again? Meet the challenge he’d thrown out at her? Sit in the sun and talk with him? Share a meal and learn a bit about him, again?
She stood up. Perhaps that’s what she needed to make this work. It might help to know more of him. She could gauge the best way to approach what was sure to be a sticky subject.
She wasn’t intimidated. Or intrigued.
Oh, saints. She was a little of both. But she’d handled far more difficult situations.
“How old are you?” he demanded, looking up at her.
She sighed. “Older than my years.”
He nodded, as if he approved of this answer. “Going somewhere?” he asked.
“Home.”
Silence stretched out for a few moments. It felt heavy with . . . what? Disappointment? Expectation?
She straightened. “Not to worry, though, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He laughed. “Perhaps.”
“Oh, don’t doubt it,” she said loftily, and then she turned on her heel and walked away.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
“Flightly!” he called.
She looked back.
He was on his feet.
“Are we going to do this?” His voice carried down the curve in the street. “Enter into this . . .” His hand waved in the air.
She pressed her lips together. He was asking about more than just their game of hide-and-seek. But how much more? She had no idea—was suddenly afraid that she couldn’t even yet conceive of all that he meant—but she burned to know.
She nodded.
“I won’t hold back,” he warned. “I’m going to give you a run for your money.”
She tossed her head. “You can try.”
Then she blended into the traffic and disappeared.
Reviews
Unique and captivating . . . I enjoyed each page of this novel and devoured it in one sitting! An amazing read . . . I give it 5 Roses that Rule
--Rachel at Romancing the Book
A sweet, sit on the edge of your seat story with plenty of drama, romance and intrigue. Deb Marlowe is one of my favorite Historical Romance authors, she writes beautifully, with engaging characters who will steal your heart and her plot is masterfully written.
--April at My Book Addiction and More
This one will keep you on the edge of your seat! I couldn't put it down . . .
--Kelly at The Sassy Book Lover
--Rachel at Romancing the Book
A sweet, sit on the edge of your seat story with plenty of drama, romance and intrigue. Deb Marlowe is one of my favorite Historical Romance authors, she writes beautifully, with engaging characters who will steal your heart and her plot is masterfully written.
--April at My Book Addiction and More
This one will keep you on the edge of your seat! I couldn't put it down . . .
--Kelly at The Sassy Book Lover
