The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

“Oh, and why is that?” She liked seeing him smile, and he appeared ecstatic.

“Because tonight, I am taking you to the theatre.”

Chapter Twelve

Oliver had underestimated the depth of his obsession for Nicole Flint. That fact became apparent as he watched her descend the stairs. The scowl marring her pretty face failed to banish the intense craving that had grown inside him from seedling to sapling to something far more sturdy and robust. While waiting in the hall of Stanton House, he’d heard her stomps and grumbles. Though as he surveyed the beauty standing before him, he struggled to understand her complaint.

“Well?” She threw her arms out wide, giving him a perfect view of her ample breasts squashed into a gown that was evidently too tight. “Now can you see what a ridiculous idea this is?”

Oh, he could see. Thankfully, there was nothing wrong with his eyesight. And yet he would have paid a king’s ransom for a monocle to assist in a more thorough inspection.

“Are you speaking of the gown?” He stepped closer, drawn forward by the magnificent spectacle. “Or does it have more to do with your irrational fear of stepping out of a carriage?”

“Of course I’m speaking of the gown.” She glanced down, forcing his attention to all the places he should not dare to look. “Beth tied my stays so tight I can barely breathe. Besides, there is nothing irrational about preferring to stay indoors.”

Mounds of soft, creamy flesh swelled up from the neckline. Bloody hell. He’d contained his rampant thoughts up till now. When it came to dressing Miss Flint, white silk definitely did not convey innocence. She looked every bit a scandalous mistress — dazzling, defiant, deliciously tempting.

“You must bear it for an hour or two, no more.”

She raised a brow. “Are you speaking of the dress or the theatre?”

“Both.” It would be just as difficult for him. How the hell was he to keep his hands off her?

“Well, I appreciate your honesty.”

“There’s no other option open to us.” He didn’t need her to attend. But he wanted an excuse to spend time in her company. He wanted to show her that the role of mistress would be far more fulfilling than that of a paid companion. “Unless you’d prefer to walk away, happy in the knowledge that an imposter has inherited the house that should belong to you.”

“We do not know that she is an imposter.”

“The lady is not who she claims to be.” Of that he was certain. “And tonight, we will find proof.”

“If you expect to find her at the theatre, then you must believe she’s an actress.” Nicole tugged and fussed with the low neckline, and it took every effort to keep his gaze fixed on her face. “If she is an imposter, she played the role of Miss Flint extremely well.”

“Oh, our fake Miss Flint is not an actress. But we shall find her at the Haymarket tonight.”

The footman had returned with news confirming that Miss Charlotte Brooke was playing Catherine in a production of Henry V at the Haymarket. Before leaving for the Continent, Oliver had entertained Miss Brooke in her dressing room on a couple of occasions.

“If memory serves me,” he continued, “Miss Flint is a maid to one of the best actresses ever to grace the stage.”

“A maid?” Nicole scrunched her pretty nose. “Surely not. The lady is too graceful, speaks far too eloquently for a servant.”

Oliver considered her point. Equally, the lady standing opposite oozed charm and sophistication. Perhaps it was time for an honest discussion regarding Miss Flint’s mysterious background.

“Do not sound so surprised. You’re a gentleman’s daughter posing as a paid companion.”

There, he’d said it. Now he need do nothing but gauge her reaction.

She opened her mouth, paused and snapped it shut.

“I am not blind, Miss Flint.” And at the present moment, he was extremely grateful for that. His gaze dropped to the sumptuous valley — a path he longed to explore. The sight was more inspiring than any natural landform he’d ever seen. “You have received tuition in all social graces. You have the deportment of a duchess, the manners of a marchioness. Well, you do when a man with shackled wrists and a handkerchief stuffed in his mouth isn't chasing you down the stairs.”

The corners of her mouth curled up a fraction. “Many ladies find themselves in unfortunate positions. Many have no choice but to work for a living.”

Was that an admission? “Then you do not deny the fact?”

“Not at all. But whether I was born a lady or a servant matters not anymore.”

It mattered to him. Or did it? If he discovered her parents were weavers from Whitechapel, would he be reluctant to pursue a liaison? Hell no! But if her parents were landed gentry, what then? To take a lady to his bed was another matter entirely. Still, he wanted her. Regardless of what obstacles came his way.