Page 74 of Cocky August Rake
“A practical philosophy.”
“And we are courtesans,” she reminded him. “An educated woman makes a more interesting companion.”
His jaw tightened.
Rose noticed. Her expression didn’t turn ashamed, but some of the ease left it.
“I’ve disturbed you.”
Reginald looked down at the atlas between them. It lay open to the Mediterranean, its coastlines so familiar he could have traced them with his eyes closed.
“Yes,” he admitted. “Though not for the reason you think.”
“You disapprove of how my education is used.”
“I disapprove of men believing they may purchase the pleasure of your mind along with everything else.” He met her gaze again. “The education was never wasted on you, Rose.”
A faint challenge entered her eyes. “Only on my clients?”
“Most assuredly on them.”
“Well, I disagree.” She gave a small shrug. “Some of them have taught me things as well. They aren’t all villains, Reginald. A few have known quite a lot worth hearing.”
Her fingers brushed the edge of the book.
“And whatever I learn is still mine when they leave.”
He looked at her then.
Rose held the book against her chest, defiant and composed. For one fleeting moment, she seemed impossibly young—delighted simply to find shelves of books waiting for her.
Then her gaze dropped briefly to his mouth.
And she became something else entirely.
A woman who knew precisely where he was weakest.
Reginald took the book from her arms, strode to the front of the shop, and purchased it before she could protest.
Who was this woman?
She made him feel stripped bare and ten feet tall at the same time. He could hardly keep himself from seeking her out, from finding one more reason to be near her.
And somehow, he was beginning to fear there was very little he would not do for her.
Except for the one thing she wanted—for him to change his mind about The Domus.
And in about three weeks’ time, Rose would hate him for it.
TOUR OF LONDON
Over the next several days, Rose and Reginald found one excuse after another to leave The Domus together.
At first, the reasons were almost convincing. Rose needed to purchase some parchment. Reginald required a new chart. She wanted more violet water, and Reginald was suddenly fascinated to learn how the scent of a flower could be trapped in a bottle.
Soon, they stopped pretending.
They might as well have been tourists newly arrived in London. Reginald secured them admission to the British Museum; they climbed to the Whispering Gallery at St. Paul’s, stared at the lions at the Tower, and shared hot chestnuts in the crush of Covent Garden.
