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settled on the settee, he sat as well. His timing took her aback. He hadn’t remained standing out of hesitation, but out of respect for her. Well, considering the purpose of the evening, respect was too strong a word. More a mere polite gesture. One likely ingrained in him since his youth.
    Not just a man who would call himself a gentleman, but a true gentleman. One whose manners did not fall aside the moment the situation no longer demanded them. Yet she doubted he was an aristocrat. There wasn’t a hint of arrogance, of superiority about him.
    She set the whisky on the spindly-legged side table and turned her shoulders to him. The settee was sized to fit the limited dimensions of the room, and even with his elbow resting on the cream silk arm, her skirt touched his thigh. But it was more than the conveniently sized furniture. James would have dwarfed one of the comfortable leather couches in the receiving room. And it wasn’t only his height. She knew without touching that his tailor had not needed to employ a bit of padding to accentuate his frame. There was nothing but solid muscle beneath the bottle green coat and tan trousers. From his impossibly broad shoulders to his strong, capable hands, this was a man who understood the value of an honest day’s work and had the body to prove it.
    With a small start, she realized she was staring, and quite boldly. Clasping her hands on her lap, she swallowed to moisten her dry mouth and recalled herself to the task at hand. No matter how appealing the view, he would expect her to do far more than stare at him.
    “Do you reside in London, James, or are you a guest to the city?” she asked, in an effort to engage him in conversation.
    “No, not a guest.”
    A response that consisted of more than three words. Not much more, but a move in the right direction. “And how do you fill your days?”
    He hesitated, his brows drawing together the slightest bit. “I work.”
    Most men did some sort of work, even if it just involved a short discussion with a secretary who saw to their business affairs. She opened her mouth, about to inquire as to the type of work he did, when he spoke.
    “How do you spend your days? When you’re not”—he tipped his head to indicate the room—“here, that is.”
    “Ah, I . . .” Track down Dash, to make certain he’s taking care of himself. Make arrangements with tradesmen to see to the repairs at Paxton Manor. Wish the sun would never set. “I take walks in the park.” The lush expanse of green grass. The gentle murmur of the Serpentine. Quiet, peaceful, a treasured reminder of home.
    He passed a hand over his strong jaw. His attention skipped about the room before settling on her. “I can’t recall the last time I went to the park during daylight hours. I sometimes take a detour through Hyde Park on my way home, but that’s well into the evening. What hour do you prefer for your walks?”
    “Late morning. Before the sun is high in the sky.” Far before the fashionable hour, and after the gentlemen let their horses stretch their legs along Rotten Row. She shared Hyde Park with the nurses pushing prams and governesses tending their errant charges, not with the elegant ladies of the ton or with gentlemen who were apt to recognize her.
    His gaze strayed again to the hidden door. A furrow marred his brow. “Can we be watched?” he asked, voice pitched low.
    “Did you grant Madame Rubicon that liberty?”
    “No.”
    “Then no. Guests are not allowed in the servants’ areas unless accompanied by Rubicon, and that passageway only leads from this room to her office.” She didn’t mention how Rubicon herself was apt to check on the room to ensure James was behaving himself, especially considering he was an unknown entity to the brothel. “Though if the thought appeals, you can let her know that you are open to such play. There are guests who gain pleasure from watching another, just as there are guests who gain pleasure from being