"As against your father, who believes the ceremonial rites of the nobility are senseless."
A shrug. "My father has a different background than yours. That doesn't mean he'd advocate defying your father's wishes. He wouldn't."
"I know that." Noelle couldn't shake the feeling there was more. And Ashford had said reasons. "Other than my father," she pressed, folding her arms across her chest, "why else are you fighting whatever it is that's happening between us?"
A heartbeat of silence. "Because I have the uneasy feeling that whatever is happening between us is more than mere attraction. And, given the circumstances, I can't allow that."
"What circumstances?"
Ashford kept his face averted. "You're young, Noelle. Very young. You don't know a thing about me—or my life."
She stared at his rigid back. "I'm a quick learner."
"So I noticed."
A smile tugged at Noelle's lips. "I thought you said it wasn't attraction we were feeling."
"I said it was more than mere attraction," Ashford corrected, pivoting to face her. "I didn't say I don't crave the feel of you in my arms, that I'm not insane with the need to possess you, that I don't want to bury myself inside you until neither of us can breathe. All I said was that I was afraid it was more than that."
"Oh." Noelle's head was swimming from the images Ashford's words had conveyed.
"I've shocked you."
"No." A bewildered look. "Actually, I think what you've done is seduced me. I just never realized it could be done with words."
"Ah, Noelle." He reached out, rubbed a lock of her hair between his fingers. "Your frankness is as arousing as your boldness, your budding passion. It's the most refreshing part of this stroll, far more renewing than the winter air."
"Renewing. Exciting. Arousing. We've determined I'm all that."
Ashford's teeth gleamed in the darkness. "All that and more."
"Then my youth shouldn't deter you. After all, it's hardly a permanent condition. Why, in four or five years I'll be positively ancient." She raised her chin, boldly met his gaze. "And you'll be weary of aimless liaisons with shallow women."
"I'm certain I shall be. I already am. But that doesn't change my earlier claim: you know nothing about me."
"I know you aren't nearly as rakish as your reputation suggests. I know you adore your family, especially the children, and that they adore you. I know you investigate stolen items—together with the people you suspect have stolen them. I know Franco Baricci is one of those people."
Ashford's breath expelled in a rush, and he dropped her lock of hair as if it had scalded him. "Baricci. What made you bring up his name?"
"I'm making a point," Noelle explained, taken aback by Ashford's oddly vehement response. "You say I don't know you. I maintain that I do. In your carriage, on the way to Waterloo Station, you told me you'd visited the Franco Gallery as a routine check, because a recently stolen, privately owned painting had been auctioned off there. Well, I believe there was far more to your visit than that. Especially given Mr. Baricci's apprehension over the fact that you were my escort, the inordinate number of questions he asked me that pertained to you. I believe you suspect Baricci himself of being involved in the theft you were investigating. What's more, I'll wager that's not the only theft you suspect him of. I think you believe he's involved in several thefts. Perhaps even all the art robberies that have struck London these past months. Am I right?"
Ashford had gone deadly still. "I'll ask you again," he said in a steely voice, "why did you bring up Baricci's name?"
Noelle started at the hardness of his tone, concluding that she'd touched upon a nerve that was far more sensitive than she'd realized. "I just told you. I—"
"I investigate a lot of people. Why did you mention Baricci in particular?"
"Because he's the only one of your suspects whose identity I'm aware of. Ashford, why are you interrogating me?"
"I'm not. I'm merely asking—"
"No, you're not merely asking. You're firing questions at me as if I were a suspect in a crime." Noelle searched his face, trying to make out his expression through the limited light cast by a nearby gas lamp. "Is it the confidentiality of your work? I didn't mean to violate that. Nor will I repeat any of my theories to another soul. I was just using them to make a point."
"It has nothing to do with secrecy. Although I am curious how you drew your rather extreme conclusions."
"They're not extreme. Not when it comes to you. I do know you, Ashford—perhaps by instinct. You don't ask routine questions, especially not of a scoundrel like Baricci. And he, in turn, doesn't fear many people. Yet he fears you. The two add up to only one thing: he's the fly and you're the spider."
"You know him well then?"