Page 51 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

“For everything,” he read. “’Tis my pleasure.”

Smiling, she cleaned and dried his arm, then wrote,YOUR TURN. Her gaze expectant, she waited. She seemed to be giving him a chance to ask her questions. But where should he start, since he had so many?

His fingertips beat a tattoo on the desk while he pondered his question as if his life depended on it. “How old are you?” he eventually asked.

She dipped her finger into her paint, then sketched21. Beside the numbers she wrote,T W E N T Y O N E.

If she meant to teach him to read, she would be sorely disappointed. The best teachers at the finest schools had failed, as had Nicolas, Nurse Brown, and his mother. However, this was a way for them to communicate. Besides, he enjoyed her touch and the closeness that came with it. He also enjoyed looking at her arms, neck, and shoulders. To hell with her usual modest garments, this dress suited. He would have to ask his mother to take her to the modiste.

He shook himself back to the task at hand. He should probably prioritize her safety above everything else. “Gen, why are you afraid of Kilsby? What did he do to you?”

She dropped her gaze to the carpet, the bold, enticing woman morphing back into the timid girl.

A vein in his temples throbbed until red-hot anger took hold of him, snuffing rational thought. “If I find out he hurt you, I will destroy him.” He actually snarled.

Her hands quivering, and still staring at the floor, she shook her head emphatically.

Why didn’t she want him to harm someone who obviously terrified her?

He pushed his thumb and forefinger into either side of his nose, pressing his anger deep. She’d given him a chance to communicate with him, but it seemed she had no intention of telling him who she was. Maybe he had to build up to the difficult questions, and he definitely had to stay calm.

“What is your favorite color?” he asked.

Her shoulders relaxed and she smiled. While she dipped her finger into the icing, he settled his arm on the desk.

BLUE, she wrote.

“Mine too,” he said. Especially the ocean blue of her eyes. “How long have you known Horatio?”

Horatio, who had curled up in a sunbeam coming in from the window, opened his eyes.

3 WEEKS?

The question mark must mean that she was unsure. Did that mean she’d met Horatio when she was living on the streets, and she’d been homeless for almost three weeks before he found her? What if he hadn’t gone back for her that night? She might have starved, or frozen to death. Or maybe the adolescents would have discovered she was a woman and misused her body.

Bile inched its way up his throat.

But he had gone back for her, and he would protect her with his life, so he must snuff his sentimental what-ifs. Hidinghis feelings behind a charming grin was almost always the best course of action. So smile he would.

He forced the corners of his lips upward. “Do you have questions for me?”

Nodding, she dipped her finger into the bowl, brought her finger to his arm, then halted.

He waited.

Her thick lashes fluttered as she blinked.

She must have a corker of a question.

Sighing, she let her finger drop to her side. She unwittingly smeared icing on the skirt of her pretty dress.

He’d try to address everything she might want to know. “I did not lie to you. I am not involved in a relationship with Celeste. Or any other woman, for that matter. I had fun doing road work with you today, and in a few days, we can do it again. My favorite food is bacon, and I favor dogs, cats, horses, and goats.” And he didn’t care who she was; he wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her until neither of them saw straight.

Her gaze met his, and they stared into each other’s eyes. The desire to take care of her was almost as strong as the desire to press his lips to hers. He picked up a towel and cleaned the icing from her dress. Then, he stared at her icing-coated finger.

Taste,the devil inside him taunted.

No. He was her protector. Her benefactor.