“I would have to disagree with that statement,” he said.
She turned around to face him. The blue rays of the moon swept across her face from the open door. Sadness reflected in her eyes—some deep fear or longing pulling him to her with even more force. “You don’t know me. You know absolutely nothing about me.” She shook her head. “We are not friends.”
Surely she felt the force pulling them together? It was so strong.
He took a step closer, the sound of hay crunching under his boots, but stopped when he saw her posture tense. Was she fearful of him? “Who are you then, Daphney? And we’ll have the truth this time, if you will.”
The skin between her brows crinkled. He felt the urge to run his thumb across her worry lines and erase them. “Why should I tell you that? You led me to believe you were Lord Newburry and then basically laughed at me by throwing a proposal into the bargain. Why should I trust anything you say or do?”
He dared a step closer, a smile hovering on his lips. “Because, Miss Innocence,” her scowl cracked a little, “if you don’t tell me truth, and do decide to run away into the night, you will never receive your one thousand pounds.”
Oh, idiot! What are you doing?
Her brows lifted. “My what?” At least now he had her attention.
Although it wasn’t the smartest idea to employ a thief, he had to get her to stay—for Mary and Robert’s sake. Definitely not because he was attracted to her. Or because when he was close to her he felt the air twist and tangle between them.
“I need you to stay until I return to London after the ball my mother is throwing for my father. If you do, I’ll give you the one thousand pounds as payment.”
This time it was she who stepped toward him, her look skeptical. Three more steps and he would be close enough to hold her hand. Smell her warm vanilla scent.
Stop it.
“Why?” she asked. “What reason do you have to keep me here?”
He cleared his throat and his mind. “That’s for me to worry about. Not you.”
He was in control of this transaction, not Daphney—or whoever she was. If he was going to have her stay, he was going to be the one in charge. There would be rules and he would be the one to set them.
“Very well.” She shrugged as if nothing in the world mattered and made for the door with determined strides. “I don’t take any jobs without knowing all of the details.”
“Wait!” he said a touch too loud before his mind had time to tell him to stop making a blasted fool of himself. “It’s because of Mary.” Again, his mouth hadn't listened to his mind. So much for staying in control.
Daphney turned around slowly. “What does our pretend engagement have to do with your sister?”
He waved for her to move closer toward him as he walked to a work table where he knew there would be a lantern. She didn’t budge. Of course not. This version of the woman was nothing but stubborn and more than a little infuriating.
An annoyed breath escaped his lungs as he went to the work table himself and lit the lantern. It took an embarrassing amount of self-sacrifice to lay down his pride and walk to where the woman was standing with folded arms and a raised mocking brow.
“How does my staying affect Lady Hatley?” asked Daphney, once he had stopped in front of her, lantern in hand. Her face was glowing, warm and lovely from the light of the flame.
“First, I want to know your name.”
Hesitancy marked her face. “Why do you suspect Daphney is not my name?” Because…it just didn’t feel right. But he couldn’t say that.
“Well, I get the feeling that you are a rather experienced criminal and as such I imagine you are not so daft as to give me your real name.”
She smirked. What did he have to do to get that woman to really smile? “You’re right, of course, but will unfortunately have to settle with Daphney because I never reveal my given name.”
“That hardly seems fair. I went so far as to tell you my middle name. Also—out of all the fake names you could have chosen, why Ingrid?” He made a show of disgust.
Her mouth opened, and she released an offended puff of breath. “You said you liked that name.”
“You’re not the only one who lied.”
She crossed her arms mimicking his pose. “Now I am certainly not going to tell you. Suppose my middle name was the only part of my persona I did not lie about.” An eyebrow quirked up. She looked exactly like Mary had when they were children, demanding to know where Carver had buried her favorite doll.
“Is that really your middle name?”