Free Wicked Intentions 1 by Elizabeth Hoyt Page A

speed, her skin dampen with sweat. He was a danger to her and all the emotions she held in such tenuous check. Her voice was sharp when she replied. “I’m not a diversion for a bored aristocrat.”
    “Did I say you were?” he asked mildly. “Who did you go to see in that house?”
    “Polly.”
    He was so silent behind her that he might’ve been a ghost.
    Temperance inhaled. Any other gentleman—especially an aristocratic gentleman—would’ve given up on her at her tart words and turned and left her in outraged male anger. Whatever the game Lord Caire played, he was patient.
    And besides, the home still needed a patron.
    “Polly is our wet nurse,” Temperance said more calmly. “You’ll remember the night we met, I brought a new baby to the home. I’ve placed the baby, a frail child, with Polly to nurse. Her name is Mary Hope.”
    “You seem…” He trailed off as if analyzing the tone of her voice. “Unhappy.”
    “Mary Hope will not suck,” Temperance said. “And when Polly dribbles milk into her mouth, she hardly swallows.”
    “Then the child will die,” he said, his voice remote.
    She stopped and whirled on him. “Yes! Yes, Mary Hope will die if she cannot take sustenance. Why are you so uncaring?”
    “Why are you so caring?” He’d stopped with her, too close as usual, and the wind blew his cloak forward, wrapping around her skirts like a living thing. “Why feel so much for a child you hardly know? A child you must’ve known was ailing, perhaps already dying, when you brought her to your home?”
    “Because it is my work,” she said fiercely. “It’s the reason I get up in the morning, the reason I eat, the reason I sleep—to provide for these children. To keep the home running.”
    “That’s all? You do not love the child herself?”
    “No, of course not.” She turned and continued walking. “I… I care for each of the children, of course I do, but to let oneself love a dying child would be the height of foolishness. Don’t think I don’t know that, my lord.”
    “So selfless,” he said, his voice deep and mocking. “Such a martyr to those poor, wretched infants. Why, Mrs. Dews, you might as well be a saint. All you need is the halo and the bloody palms.”
    A hot retort was on the tip of her tongue, but Temperance pressed her lips together, swallowing the words.
    “And yet,” Lord Caire mused somewhere close behind her, “I wonder if it is possible to stop yourself from loving a child. For some it might be easy, but for you, Mrs. Dews, I very much doubt it.”
    She quickened her steps in irritation. “You consider yourself an authority on emotion, my lord?”
    “Not at all,” he murmured. “I rarely feel anything. But like the legless man, I’m unaccountably fascinated by those who can dance.”
    She turned the corner, thinking. They were walking away from the home now. “You don’t feel anything?”
    “Nothing.”
    She paused to look up at him curiously. “Then why spend so much time searching for the murderer of your mistress?”
    His mouth curved cynically. “I wouldn’t read too much into that. A whim, merely.”
    “Now who lies?” she whispered.
    He looked away as if in irritation. “I notice we’re not going toward your home.”
    She was oddly disappointed at his deflection of the subject. If he truly felt no emotion, then why spend months looking for a murderer on a “whim”? Did Lord Caire feel more than he would admit? Or was he really the cold, uncaring aristocrat he painted himself?
    But he was silent, obviously waiting for her reply. Temperance sighed. “I’m taking you to Hangman’s Alley, where Martha Swan supposedly lives.”
    “Won’t your brother worry for you if you don’t return home?”
    “If we can go and come back in the next hour, I’ll say that I was checking on the other wet nurses,” Temperance muttered, setting off again.
    “Tsk, Mrs. Dews, lying to your own brother?”
    This time she simply ignored him. Night had