Never Trust a Pirate by Anne Stuart Page A

there any reason we shouldn’t, sir?” she asked, another inappropriate question. If this girl had been a maid before, then he was a landlubbing pig farmer.
    He looked at her with complete indifference. “I see no reason.” He could recognize it, even in the shadows, that glimmer of confusion in her eyes. She had been certain that he’d recognize her, but now she was unsure, which was exactly how he wanted it. As far as she knew he was in the habit of kissing any pretty girl he met, and one was much like the next. Except for this one, his truthful self admitted, but he ignored the notion. No, he would play it this way for both their sakes. He’d never met her, never tasted her virginal mouth, and hedamned well never would again. At least, not until he remembered where he’d seen her before.
    “Very good, sir.” Her voice was drifting into Mayfair territory again. There was a perfectly acceptable reason for that, of course. Anyone in service with ambitions would work toward bettering herself, and the first step would be her accent. Voices placed you in society, and the girl would want to ape her so-called betters, not sound like a country lass.
    He had an ear for accents—he could take and discard any of them at his pleasure, and every now and then he liked to let the sound of the London docks into his voice to shake up the Havilands. They wanted his money, of course—old man Haviland had lost a fortune when Eustace Russell had decamped, and Luca had no doubt he wouldn’t have gotten within ten feet of his precious Gwendolyn if he hadn’t come equipped with a relatively staggering amount of money. Haviland knew to a penny what he was worth, and probably did daily calculations, and that wasn’t counting the priceless items he kept hidden. It didn’t matter—if money could buy an exquisite porcelain doll like Gwendolyn, he’d decided he was willing to pay the price. And the smartest thing he could do was ignore his present doubts.
    He moved into the hallway, heading toward the pile of rubbish at one end, and he heard her start after him. She was just about to close her door in his face when he turned, presenting his offering.
    She looked down at the broken tennis racket that had belonged to some indolent creature who’d lived here long ago. “Did you want me to mend this, sir?” she asked blankly.
    “No, I want you to play tennis with me,” he drawled. Her hair had come free from her half braid now, and it was truly glorious hair, the moonlight sending a warm glow into its rich depths, and he wondered what it would smell like. Bleach and carbolic? Or the heady scent of flowers?
    Not now, he reminded himself. “It’s to drive any stray visitors away,” he said casually. “Just open a window and knock them outside.”
    “If I open the window, won’t more bats come in?” It was stuffy up here, despite the damp chill. That explained it then.
    “You close the window, in between dispatching them. Who knows, you might develop an impressive backhand in time.”
    She shouldn’t know what he meant, but apparently she did and she wasn’t amused. Interesting, when most women found him irresistibly witty. “Yes, sir,” she said in not much more than a disgruntled mumble. “Will that be all, sir?”
    She was dismissing him. He found the thought so amusing he almost moved back toward her, crowding her, pushing up against her… no. Not now, he reminded himself.
    “Yes, M-Mary.” If she truly had a stammer that was unconscionably cruel of him, but he knew she didn’t. She simply wasn’t sure which name she’d chosen to use. He was almost at the top of the open stairs when she spoke, halting him.
    “Sir, you look a bit familiar. Have we met before?”
    He turned to look at her. So she was going to go there, was she? He needed to set her mind at ease. “I don’t think so. But then, I meet so very many people. Too many, in fact. Part of your job will be to lie and tell people I’m not at home.”
    “Yes,