Shame and electricity coursed through her veins, flowing directly from him in a flash flood. ‘You are a born rebel, ma’am, and I can see now where she gets it from. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. ’ ‘Ah, that was an affair altogether different,’ she explained and fluttered her long lashes at him. Fas du tout. Trust you.
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