“Thank you, but I assure you, I am perfectly safe with Mr D’Angelo.”
The clip of his boots on the tiled floor raised her pulse a notch. He entered the room dressed in the immaculate blue coat and tan breeches he’d worn while throttling Mr Babington, and while teasi
ng her senses with candied fruit. They’d parted after their meeting with Sir Malcolm. Mr D’Angelo had other business, hence the reason he agreed to call at Howland Street later, but she had the impression he needed time alone before delving into the secrets of the past.
“Miss Trimble seems more accommodating tonight.” Mr D’Angelo’s playful grin hid any reservations he might have about proceeding down this path, but his brief glance at the leather case on the seat beside her resulted in him swallowing deeply. “I know Daventry suggested we read the notes together, but you must be tired, and I prefer to study them alone.”
Beatrice stood. She had been expecting such a reaction, a need to flee to a place where he could express his anger and frustration freely.
“Sir, may I call you by your given name?”
“Of course. It’s—”
“Dante. I know. You’re named after your paternal grandfather.”
“He was extremely charming by all accounts.”
“Then, your parents named you well.”
Their gazes locked across a space that seemed cavernous. Indeed, there was every chance she might never reach him. And for a second she asked herself why she cared.
“I assume you will afford me the same courtesy, Miss Sands, or would you prefer I call you Miss Walton?”
Hearing her father’s name spoken aloud brought to mind everything they’d both lost. “You may call me Beatrice. It seems ridiculous to adhere to formality when we know intimate details of each other’s lives.”
“Dante and Beatrice,” he mused. “It’s a tale of unrequited love.”
“It’s a Florentine tale of love at first sight, though to my knowledge we did not meet as children and you’ve not spent years pining.”
“No.” A light laugh escaped him, but his amusement died. “I’ve spent my life disconnecting, avoiding the intimacy of romantic relationships.”
She shrugged. “In that, we are different, for I hope to fall in love and marry one day.”
“You’d marry knowing life brings nothing but tragedy?” he said cynically. “You would risk experiencing the crippling pain of loss?”
“Every moment is a chance to learn, to grow, to love. We do our dearly departed a disservice if we do not forge ahead and create cherished memories. That’s what I shall strive for when this is over—a life with more than fleeting glimpses of happiness.”
He stood there, a silent observer.
“My aunt used to tuck me into bed at night and ask me to recall something special about the day,” she continued. “The simple things like birdsong, the sweet taste of candied pineapple, witnessing the bonds of friendship that exist between a group of men.”
“The sweeping stroke of your tongue when licking sugar from your lips.” He spoke as if it were an erotic scene witnessed at the Blue Jade.
“Like a new and honest friendship where there is no need to hide behind a facade.” She paused. “Let me sit with you, Dante, and help you decipher my father’s scrawled notes.”
Behind his proud countenance, she sensed an internal war raging.
“Miss Sands—”
“Beatrice,” she corrected.
“Beatrice.” The beginnings of a smile formed but faded. “You’re a woman of virtue, and I’m a consummate seducer who will seek to corrupt you the second I witness anything remotely disturbing in those documents.”
She straightened her shoulders, affronted he would think her so weak, so malleable to his will. “I’m not a child.”
His rakish gaze traced a path down the column of her throat, stopping at the swell of her breasts. “No, you’re by no means a child.”
“And I’m quite capable of refusing your advances.”