“Per’aps it’s merely me nature to be charmin’.”

“Unlikely.” She gave him a reserved look as she seated herself. “You want something from me.”

“A gentleman never professes ’is desires to a lady,” he admitted. “It ain’t polite.”

A healthy flush of color touched her cheeks. “You’re quite right, of course. But a gentleman should never admit to having such desires in the first instance.”

Blade sank into the opposing armchair and hooked his ankle up on his other knee. He laced his fingers together across his middle, eyeing her with a slight smile. “Your notions are practic’ly middle class, luv.” The Echelon was all about the pursuit of pleasure. As if in defiance, the middle and working classes had become somewhat conservative. They dressed in solid, work-a-day colors and sturdy fabrics and kept well-mannered households.

“I am middle class,” she retorted.

“And I’m of the gutters.”

“Your manners perhaps.” She ran an appraising eye over him. “You have the gaudy instincts of the Echelon and a theoretical notion of etiquette, so it seems. When it suits you. I shall have my work cut out for me.”

Dragging the satchel into her lap, she opened it and started assembling an array of papers and notes on the small table beside her. “I thought perhaps we should start with an overview of what is needed. I have none of the equipment I use at Macy’s, but I’m certain we can make do. Your speech shall be the most difficult task. There are some books here that I borrowed from my brother…” She dug them out, relegating him to merely another student. He would just see about that. She looked up beneath thick, dark lashes. “Can you read at all?”

“Some,” he admitted. It weren’t the sort of thing he’d had much time for, between his early life on the streets and his later life in the rookery. “Me name. Dates. Numbers. I’m good with numbers.”

Honoria uncapped a pen and made a brief notation. A knock sounded on the door and she looked up.

“Come in,” he called.

Lark shoved the door open, giving an old automated drone a shove. The drone rumbled forward with a teakettle whistle of steam escaping from its vents. A gleaming silver tureen held Honoria’s meal, with steam vents keeping it warm within, and the teapot jostled on the tray as the drone jerked toward them.

“Bloody ’ell,” Blade said. “You’ve resurrected old Bertie.”

They didn’t bother to sit on formality at the warren. The drone had been fenced years ago, and with its faulty wiring it had never been sold on. Esme or Lark must have hauled it out of storage, though for what purpose he wasn’t certain.

Lark hauled the drone up short just as it prepared to plow through Honoria’s chair. “Bloody scrap o’ tin.”

Honoria stared in astonishment. “What is this?”

“An eighteen fifty-eight service drone,” he admitted. “Either that or a rusted bucket of bolts with the steering capacity of an ’erd of stampedin’ bulls.”

“Yes, but…” Honoria gave the pot of tea a swift glance, then eyed the silver tureen with far more interest. “It’s well after supper and you don’t eat.”

Blade lifted the lid. A steaming waft of kidney pie filled the air. He deliberately fanned it her way with the lid. To the side sat a small plate of biscuits and ginger cake. “I thought per’aps you might be ’ungry. Me ’ousekeeper’s grub is delicious, I’m told.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I assure you I’m not.” As if to defy her, her stomach gave an audible growl. She flushed. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Tea?” Blade offered.

Honoria stilled his hand with a touch of her fingers. “Allow me.” She reached for the pair of cups and elegantly handled the tea service, her gaze darting between it and the plate of kidney pie.

Blade smuggled a smile.

“Anythin’ else?” Lark asked, waggling her eyebrows at him.

“Get to bed,” he muttered.

Lark left them alone with a sigh of relief. The drone bobbed up and down, occasionally erupting with an almost flatulent gasp of steam.

“I’m not some starving kitten you’ve fetched off your doorstep,” Honoria said briskly, gesturing toward the lumped sugar and pitcher of cream. “You’re utterly transparent, you know?”

He shook his head to the condiments and accepted the teacup and saucer. “I ain’t the foggiest clue what you’re referrin’ to.”

“Fattening me up,” she snapped. “Like a Christmas goose. I’m not eating it.”

“Let it go cold then. I don’t give a damn, but me ’ousekeeper might think it rude.”

Her mouth opened. Then closed. “You’re incorrigible. I shan’t enjoy a bite, knowing my brother and sister are at home without—”

“Take some cake ’ome then,” he suggested, “if that’ll ease your guilt.”

She still looked cross. But she shot the pie a longing look. If only she’d look at me like that, he thought and rubbed at his jaw.

Still, it gave him an odd sort of pleasure to see her accept the plate and dissect the meat with the small fork. The urge to protect her was suddenly overwhelming. Honoria was not the sort of woman to welcome such attentions, and he wasn’t sure why he felt such a strong inclination. After their first meeting, he was fairly certain she’d spit in the eye of the devil himself. She needed someone to watch over her, but she’d be damned if she’d admit it.

As she took a delicate bite, her eyes softened with pleasure. “Delicious.”

A flake of pastry clung to her lips. He shifted uncomfortably as her tongue darted out and swept it away. “Aye,” he muttered. He liked seeing the visible enjoyment on her face. A simple moment of sensory delight that he was privy to.

Imagine what other delights he could show her. Imagine her reaction, as delicious and uncensored as it was now, while she closed her lips over another bite.

Her gaze flickered his way. “You’re staring.”

“Can’t ’elp meself,” he replied. “You were made to be stared at.”

A flicker of consternation crossed her face. She toyed with the fork. “As far as compliments go, it is crude but sufficient. But we shall cover that later, after we have begun the rudimentary matters.”

“I were merely statin’ the truth,” he replied. “Can’t take me eyes off you. Does it bother you?”

Another slant of those wide, almond eyes. “It’s disconcerting,” she admitted. “How should you like it if I stared so at you?”

Blade spread his arms wide. “Look all you want, luv.”

Honoria stabbed the last of the pie, delicately sweeping it off the tip of the fork with her cherry-colored lips. Her gaze settled on his with a challenging gleam. Then slowly it started wandering down his body, cataloging each inch of flesh as though she were ruthlessly looking to find fault with it. An uncomfortable feeling.

“A woman is not encouraged to…to leer at a man,” she said with a troubled look pinching her brows. She paused, seemingly quite taken with his thighs.

His c**k stirred. Thank the lord for tight leather, he thought, feeling her piercing gaze upon that area of his anatomy. “Ain’t you ever looked at a man, then?”

“Of course not.”

Relief swelled in his chest.

Honoria shook her head as though clearing it. “How do you distract me so easily?” She put the empty plate aside and tugged a sheet of paper out of her sheaf. “This is a sheet of the alphabet. I shall go over it with you. We might as well begin there for tonight. The basics of appropriate conversational topics seem to be escaping you entirely.”

Blade didn’t complain. As she placed the paper on a small writing table between them, she dragged her chair closer. He hauled his alongside, and as she leaned forward, her shoulder brushed against his.

She shot him a startled look. “That’s quite close enough.”

“Can’t see the paper.” He squinted slightly.

“You’re a blue blood.” As such his vision was preternaturally excellent.

Teasing her was far more enjoyable than most of the interactions he’d ever had with women. Including the na**d ones. It was so easy to fluster her.

Honoria readjusted her chair, then used her cup of tea to anchor the top corner of the sheet. There were twenty-six squares across it, filled with thick, dark letters. In this state he could recognize most of them; it was only when placed in a jumble that he could not always pick out the meaning.

“This,” she said, pointing at the first letter, “is ‘A,’ as in airship.”

He liked watching her mouth form the shape of the words. The flick of her tongue as she pronounced each vowel and consonant. The wet gleam on her lips as she moistened them.

She made him repeat the sound, which he did, perfectly. By the time she’d reached ‘F,’ she was frowning at him.

“Are you paying attention?” she accused.

“Aye.”

“To the letters,” she said. “Not my…my mouth.”

“I know me letters,” he said. “When they’re like this.”

An eyebrow arched. “Prove it.”

“We’ve no ink,” he said, sliding his fingers over the edge of her armchair. He stroked her hand gently. “’Ow do I prove it?”

Honoria tugged at his fingers, but he turned her hand over in his and exposed the bare skin of her wrist.

“I’ve an idea,” he murmured innocently.

With his fingertip he traced the first slashing line of the “A” across her smooth skin. The touch was deliberately light. Her lips parted and she gave a helpless little shiver.

“Stop.”

“‘A.’ For arm.” He returned to the start and began the soft, lush curves of the next letter. “‘B.’” His gaze traveled down her throat to her bosom, and he leaned closer, his voice lowering hypnotically. “For…brow.” A devilish little smile.

Honoria’s eyes went out of focus as she stared at his mouth. Her breath came a little heavier and she wet her lips. “That’s quite enough.” But the words lacked force.

“‘C.’” Another suggestive curve. “For cheek.” His breath brushed against her neck as he slowly leaned closer.

Honoria trembled, like a rabbit trapped in the hunter’s hand, knowing that the soothing strokes of his touch were dangerous and yet not understanding how. He sensed the struggle within her; by rights she should pull away and slap him. With the melting softness in her body, she wanted to wait and see what else he could do. Curiosity would be her downfall. There was a passionate woman beneath the starch and tightly laced stays. But she could not be won by force, only by the sweet lure of desire.

Blade brought her hand up, lowering his mouth to the inside of her wrist. Her pulse gave an erratic jolt and she sucked in a sharp breath.

“‘D,’” he whispered, feeling the coolness of his breath stir across her skin. “For dimples. Me favorite bit.” Reaching out he started tracing the curve of the “D” across her wrist with his tongue. This close, he could smell the come-hither scent of her lush body.

“Stop,” she breathed, her lips parted and quivering. A tremor ran through her entire body.

He looked up from her wrist, his tongue swirling through the intricate points of an “E.” Their eyes met, hers wide and shocked. Blade stopped tracing the letter and suckled the tender skin into his mouth in a delicious parody of what he would do if the vein were cut open.

It was too much for her. She pushed him away with a cry and clutched her arm to her chest as she put three staggering steps between them. There was a bruise forming on her wrist in the shape of his mouth. The sight of it stirred his blood. He’d put his mark on her. Dark satisfaction flavored the thought.

Honoria stared at him through passion-glazed eyes. She looked vulnerable, and he realized that the cool mask of indifference she often wore was gone. As she rubbed hard at the mark on her wrist, her eyebrows drew together. She was not happy. He had slipped past her emphatic barriers, and she would never forget how easily he’d done it.

“You…” With a growl, she gathered her papers up and stuck them in her satchel. “You have overstepped the line. That is not considered polite or acceptable. Good night.”

“You forgot your cake,” he called as she turned to leave the room. “For your brother and sister.”

With another angry glance, she returned to fold the cake neatly into a napkin. “You have two days. I advise that you learn some restraint.”

And then she turned and stalked out, leaving him laughing behind her.

***

“Miss Pryor, a word if I could?” Mr. Macy wrung his hands as he stood in the doorway, a habit she secretly found detestable.

Honoria plastered a smile on her face and put her teacup down. She couldn’t help tugging at the sleeve of her gown, though she knew it covered the damning mark. Blade’s mark. She could feel his mouth on her skin as if he’d etched the sensation into her body. The thought made her angry—yes, angry—that she could not escape him.

Her notes were spread across the polished surface of the walnut secretary desk, written in the spidery hand of the mechanical letter copier. She had just finished with Miss Lovett, who was making remarkable progress. The girl’s stammer had almost completely submerged, except in times of emotional duress, and she could recite the names of the Great Houses of the Echelon by rote: Malloryn, Casavian, Bleight, Lannister, Caine, Goethe, and Morioch.