He sensed her approach, and his every muscle tightened. From the corner of his eye he saw her stand next to him, and he forced himself to remain staring at the fire.

"As far as I'm concerned, beauty hasn't garnered me any attention worth having," she said softly. "Nor has it gained me any true friends, although it has tossed many false ones my way." A humorless sound passed her lips. "Do you have any idea how excruciatingly hollow it is to be admired for no reason other than your reflection in the mirror?"

Unable to stop himself, he shifted his attention from the crackling flames to her. At the sight of her, looking so lost and vulnerable, the last vestiges of his anger melted away, leaving a bone-deep, aching emptiness in its place. "Hardly. If I'm admired for anything, it certainly isn't my looks."

She hiked up a brow. "Now who is guilty of false modesty and on a fishing expedition for compliments?"

A sound of disbelief escaped him. "No man whose nose has been broken twice expects compliments regarding his appearance. As for being admired for anything else…" He shrugged. "I'm good at my job. I have to be, or I'd end up dead. Although the criminals I capture aren't particularly complimentary regarding my skills."

"No, I imagine they wouldn't be. Nor, I suppose are they much taken with your good looks." A whiff of mischief twinkled in her eyes. "No doubt they'd like to rearrange them for you."

He rubbed his finger down the bridge of his nose, telling himself it was ridiculous for a man with no vanity to feel so pleased that she thought him good-looking. "Two have succeeded." He shot her a half grin. "Of course, when the dust settled, they ended up looking far worse than me."

"I've no doubt," she murmured. "How long have you been a Runner?"

"Five years."

"Do you enjoy it?"

"It… satisfies me."

"In what way?"

He turned so he faced her fully. "I like righting wrongs. Solving mysteries. Getting dangerous criminals off the streets. Seeing justice done."

"You must have experienced a great deal during those five years. Seen a great deal."

"Yes." Things she would never want to see. Things he wished he hadn't seen.

"And before Bow Street what did you do?"

"I served in the army."

"And before that?"

"Do you always ask so many questions?"

"No. Never. Mother would be horrified at my lack of manners and restraint. However, I find myself insatiably curious about you. Your life."

"There is nothing to know. I have my work. A few trusted friends." He nodded toward the open doorway. "Caesar."

"How did you two come to be together?"

She appeared genuinely interested, and in spite of himself, he found himself relaxing and responding. "I found him."

"Where?"

"At the docks. Saw some bastard toss a basket over the side of a ship just pulling out. I knew something alive was inside, so I rescued the basket. And found Caesar. He was only a few weeks old."

Her eyes went wide with shock. "He would have drowned!" "That was the point of him being tossed over the side. Easiest way to get rid of unwanted animals."

"How horrible. And cruel."

"Yes. But it happens every day. That and worse. It's a horrible, cruel world."

"Yes, but there is also a great deal of good."

He shrugged. "In my line of work I see far more of the bad." She studied him, just as he'd studied her moments ago. Then she nodded slowly. "Yes, I can see that. It's in your eyes, the horrible things you've seen. They've hurt you."

Her words both surprised and unnerved him. She couldn't have seen anything in his eyes. He'd learned long ago how to turn his face into an unreadable mask. Before he could even think of a reply, she asked, "I wonder when was the last time you laughed-a real, true laugh that reached deep inside you and all the way up to your eyes. I wager it's been a long, long time."

His brows collapsed in a frown. "Don't be ridiculous. I laugh all the time." Of course he did-when there was something to laugh about. Hardly his fault that catching criminals wasn't a nonstop jest festival.

"Indeed? From what I can tell, the next time will be the first time. But don't worry. I intend to fix that."

"I'm not wor-"

"Where do you live?"

"Live?"

"Yes. Where do you make your home? Sleep at night?"

His gaze swept the chamber. "Nowhere grand like this."

"You like this room?"

"You want the truth?"

"Of course."

He looked around again. He wished he could honestly say he disliked this room, but he didn't. In spite of its size, it was somehow cozy, and he found the pale green and blue color scheme soothing. "I actually like this room. It's not o… ornate as some of the others."

Julianne nodded. "I completely agree. This is my favorite spot in the entire house. Although it's large, I find it warm and cheerful. And comforting. I love music."

"You play very well."

"Thank you." She looked toward the ceiling and heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Mother would tell you I'm a virtuoso."

His lips twitched slightly. "You're not?"

"Hardly. But I strive to better myself. Have you any musical talent?"

"None that I'm aware of. I've never tried to play any instrument and on the few occasions I've attempted to sing, Caesar put up a howl-literally. So I shut my mouth before he decided to bury me in a deep hole."

She made a tsking sound. "Terrible how criticism can discourage budding talent. What were these occasions that prompted you to sing?"

"Drunken revelry, I'm afraid."

She smothered a laugh. "I see. What songs did you sing?"

"Nothing that could be repeated to a lady."

Her eyes lit up, seeming to glow from within. "Nonsense. I've always wanted to learn a bawdy song. All the songs I know are boring. About flowers and sunshine and grass-filled meadows."

"Like the piece you were playing when I arrived?"

"You heard that?"

"Yes. Parts of it were sad. Mournful. But one part was very bright and… meadowy. What is the name of that piece?"

"I call it 'Dreams of You.'"

"What does the composer call it?"

She hesitated, then said softly, "'Dreams of You.'"

He couldn't hide his surprise. "You wrote it?"

"Yes." She looked down for several seconds then lifted her chin to meet his gaze. The shyness and vulnerability that had struck him the first time he'd looked at her stared at him now. "No one has ever heard it before. Except me." One corner of her mouth lifted. "And Princess Buttercup."

"Why?"

"I've no desire to bore anyone."

"I wasn't bored." The words slipped out before he could stop them.

"Do you know anything about music?"

"No."

She gave a quick laugh. "There you have it."

"But I know what I like. Just as I'm sure you like flowers and sunshine and grass-filled meadows."

"Why? Because I'm a princess?"

Her lip curled with such distaste on the last word he couldn't help but chuckle. "It's not an insult, you know."

Disbelief was written all over her face. "Really? I had the distinct impression it was." She gave an elegant sniff. "You certainly haven't meant it as a compliment."

Without thinking, he reached out and captured her hand. She drew in a sharp breath as he brushed the pad of his thumb over her fingertips. "Hmmm. So the kitten has claws. Interesting."

It took her several seconds to respond, and he realized the folly of touching her. Color suffused her cheeks with a captivating blush, and heat sizzled up his arm. He quickly released her hand, but his fingers curled into a fist to retain her warmth for several seconds.

"Yes, as a matter of fact she does," she said in a breathless voice. "And she greatly prefers being compared to a kitten rather than a drunken porcupine-although she'd much prefer a lioness to a kitten."

He inclined his head. "As you wish, Lioness. And to answer your question about why I would think you'd like flowers and sunshine and grass-filled meadows, it's because…"

His common sense had him hesitating, screaming at him to shut his mouth. But his lips obviously weren't listening, because seemingly of their own volition they continued to flap and spill out words that would surely appall him later. "… You're a lovely, innocent young woman who should never be touched by anything that isn't equally as lovely and innocent." Including himself.

She blinked. "That sounds suspiciously like a compliment."

"I meant it as one." And damn it, he did. What in God's name was wrong with him? Where had his anger gone? Where was the rod he'd fused to his spine to steel himself against her?

"Thank you. But I'd still like to learn a bawdy song. Will you teach me?"

"You'd be shocked."

"I hope so. I want to be shocked. I want to feel. Experience something of life."

Her eyes… bloody hell, he felt himself drowning in those clear, blue pools that shimmered with a combination of everything she'd shown him since he'd walked into this room filled with his righteous sense of betrayal and a fierce determination to keep his distance: shyness and despair, vulnerability and unexpected strength. All things he didn't want to see. Wished to hell he hadn't. He didn't want to find anything in her to like. To admire. To respect. It was so much easier to believe she was nothing more than a spoiled, vain princess enamored of her own beauty.

But clearly, she was much more.

Bloody hell.

If all he felt for her was lust, desire, he had a fighting chance to resist temptation. But if he were foolish enough to let himself feel more for her… to care for her… to allow her to scale the walls he'd built around his heart… well, then, he'd be cast adrift on stormy seas without so much as a rowboat in sight.

His anger drained away, leaving him with nothing save a deep, aching want. One that would have to go unsatisfied.

"I have very little time left before my marriage, and I don't wish to spend it in morose reflection or consumed with sadness. I want to do something. Toward that end, won't you please teach me a bawdy song? If you do, I'll teach you something in return."

He should have flatly refused. But once again his lips had a mind of their own and asked, "Such as?"

A hint of mischief touched her eyes. "Embroidery?"

"Not very useful on Bow Street, I'm afraid."

"Ah. Then how about fisticuffs?"

"And what do you know about fisticuffs?"

"Absolutely nothing. So I'm afraid that won't do." She tapped her finger against her chin and frowned. Then brightened. "I could teach you to play a song on the pianoforte."

"I'm afraid my hands are too clumsy."

"Nonsense. I'll teach you a simple song. About flowers and sunshine and grass-filled meadows." She held out her hand. "Do we have a bargain, Mr. Mayne?"

He knew he should say no. Tell her to just read or sit in the corner. But damn it, he suddenly wanted to teach her a bawdy song. Watch her cheeks turn scarlet and that unexpected impudence to shine in her eyes. As she'd said, only a short time remained before she'd be married and gone. Why not make that time as pleasant as possible for her? Otherwise he'd feel as if he were just tossing more dirt on the glass coffin in which she'd dreamed of herself confined. He could control himself. He would control himself.

Reaching out, he took her hand and shook it. And firmly ignored the jolt of heat that shot up his arm.

"You have a bargain, Lady Julianne. Let the lessons begin."

Chapter 15

"If I'm to learn the melody, you'll need to at least hum it," Julianne said, resting her fingers on the smooth ivory keys.