Minerva ought to just marry
him.
But that argument wasn’t working so far, and as long as her wall of misconceptions about him remained, it never would.
He wished he could tell her the truth—about why he’d stolen the papers, what he’d been doing since, why she had to keep silent about their encounter. But he couldn’t.
For one thing, he didn’t trust her. Writers were magpies—they took bits of things and wove them together to make their stories. She had no reason to protect his interests . . . or those of his superiors. For God’s sake, she’d already made him into a spy—that was skirting far too close to the truth for his comfort. If anyone recognized the bits from her novels and his theft was unveiled, he wouldn’t be the only one to suffer.
Ravenswood would be forced to explain why the government had countenanced a theft from a well-known lord’s home, performed by a private citizen. Newmarsh would almost certainly want vengeance for it, considering that he’d been exiled from England for his part in the fraud. And everyone in Giles’s sphere who’d found himself in trouble with the Home Office would assume it was Giles who’d put them there. That couldn’t possibly help his career.
He simply couldn’t risk telling her the truth about that night. Minerva was too unpredictable to trust with his future.
Besides, if he could skate past this issue until they were married, it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t be working for Ravenswood anymore; she’d have no reason to suspect him of anything. In time she’d lose interest in that one theft, and his secrets would fade into the past where they belonged.
If
he married her. And he fully intended to. Agreeing to her plan wasn’t a bad idea, actually. He could court her and let her get to know him. They would be in each other’s pockets for weeks, possibly months, and if he couldn’t convince her to marry him in that amount of time, he deserved to lose her.
A sudden bellow from somewhere in Halstead Hall’s 356 rooms broke the stillness. “Minerva! Damn it, Minerva, where are you?”
Minerva jumped. “Oh, Lord, that’s Oliver. He’s probably coming to lecture me about this whole interviewing business. What do you say, Giles? I need your answer
now.
”
“First, I want another kiss,” he said, stepping toward her. “To help me make up my mind.”
She colored. “Absolutely not. And don’t think that this pretend courtship will include kissing, because it won’t.”
He eyed her askance. “Why not, if you find my kissing so uninspiring? Why should you care if from time to time I give you one of my merely ‘competent’ kisses?”
“Drat it, Giles, we don’t have time for this!”
“Kissing is part of it, or no deal,” he said firmly.
“Minerva!” roared Oliver from much closer.
She hurried to the door and opened it, then came back to him with a frustrated expression. “All right. From time to time you may kiss me, I suppose.”
“Then I agree to your terms.” He stepped nearer. “So let’s seal our bargain with a kiss.” He was going to get another crack at it if it killed him.
“Are you mad? If Oliver sees us kissing, you won’t get the chance to court me—it’ll be duels at dawn.”
“How do you know it won’t be duels at dawn when you tell him you’ve accepted my proposal of marriage?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not
that
hotheaded. Though Idaresay he may try to . . . er . . . knock some sense into you. He and Jarret. And possibly Gabe.”
“Our bargain is looking better and better all the time,” he said drily. “I get to fight the Sharpe men while you stand around pretending to care.” He came close enough to whisper, “I will definitely require a few kisses of you if
that
comes to pass, minx.”
“Step back!” she hissed just as the door swung fully open.
“Damn it, Minerva,” Oliver began, “come out and tell these idiots—”
He broke off, the scowl on his dark brow deepening.
him.
But that argument wasn’t working so far, and as long as her wall of misconceptions about him remained, it never would.
He wished he could tell her the truth—about why he’d stolen the papers, what he’d been doing since, why she had to keep silent about their encounter. But he couldn’t.
For one thing, he didn’t trust her. Writers were magpies—they took bits of things and wove them together to make their stories. She had no reason to protect his interests . . . or those of his superiors. For God’s sake, she’d already made him into a spy—that was skirting far too close to the truth for his comfort. If anyone recognized the bits from her novels and his theft was unveiled, he wouldn’t be the only one to suffer.
Ravenswood would be forced to explain why the government had countenanced a theft from a well-known lord’s home, performed by a private citizen. Newmarsh would almost certainly want vengeance for it, considering that he’d been exiled from England for his part in the fraud. And everyone in Giles’s sphere who’d found himself in trouble with the Home Office would assume it was Giles who’d put them there. That couldn’t possibly help his career.
He simply couldn’t risk telling her the truth about that night. Minerva was too unpredictable to trust with his future.
Besides, if he could skate past this issue until they were married, it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t be working for Ravenswood anymore; she’d have no reason to suspect him of anything. In time she’d lose interest in that one theft, and his secrets would fade into the past where they belonged.
If
he married her. And he fully intended to. Agreeing to her plan wasn’t a bad idea, actually. He could court her and let her get to know him. They would be in each other’s pockets for weeks, possibly months, and if he couldn’t convince her to marry him in that amount of time, he deserved to lose her.
A sudden bellow from somewhere in Halstead Hall’s 356 rooms broke the stillness. “Minerva! Damn it, Minerva, where are you?”
Minerva jumped. “Oh, Lord, that’s Oliver. He’s probably coming to lecture me about this whole interviewing business. What do you say, Giles? I need your answer
now.
”
“First, I want another kiss,” he said, stepping toward her. “To help me make up my mind.”
She colored. “Absolutely not. And don’t think that this pretend courtship will include kissing, because it won’t.”
He eyed her askance. “Why not, if you find my kissing so uninspiring? Why should you care if from time to time I give you one of my merely ‘competent’ kisses?”
“Drat it, Giles, we don’t have time for this!”
“Kissing is part of it, or no deal,” he said firmly.
“Minerva!” roared Oliver from much closer.
She hurried to the door and opened it, then came back to him with a frustrated expression. “All right. From time to time you may kiss me, I suppose.”
“Then I agree to your terms.” He stepped nearer. “So let’s seal our bargain with a kiss.” He was going to get another crack at it if it killed him.
“Are you mad? If Oliver sees us kissing, you won’t get the chance to court me—it’ll be duels at dawn.”
“How do you know it won’t be duels at dawn when you tell him you’ve accepted my proposal of marriage?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not
that
hotheaded. Though Idaresay he may try to . . . er . . . knock some sense into you. He and Jarret. And possibly Gabe.”
“Our bargain is looking better and better all the time,” he said drily. “I get to fight the Sharpe men while you stand around pretending to care.” He came close enough to whisper, “I will definitely require a few kisses of you if
that
comes to pass, minx.”
“Step back!” she hissed just as the door swung fully open.
“Damn it, Minerva,” Oliver began, “come out and tell these idiots—”
He broke off, the scowl on his dark brow deepening.
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