Charlotte’s fingers tightened on her mug. That was a little unfair too. But she bit her tongue on behalf of a boy from Aysgarth who would probably not have reason to have an opinion. She should go now. Nod and make some sort of noise that would neither agree nor disagree and then remove herself. She really didn’t need to argue, and she certainly didn’t need to know what lay between a capricious widow and a gifted artist to make him so bitter. What his rich, titled mistress had done to wound him so deeply was none of her business.

“I must assume it is the Lady Cecelia who has inspired such…umbrage?” Morbid curiosity triumphed over good sense.

“Of course it is.” His eyes snapped up, narrowed and mocking. “You really haven’t heard the tales? About me? About us?”

Suddenly clouding her vision was an image of Rutledge in all his golden glory, reclining on satin sheets, the dark-haired Lady Cecelia peeling away his clothes as he kissed her senseless. The expected rush of horrified embarrassment that should have followed that was strangely absent. In its place was a feeling of…jealousy. A deep, inexplicable longing to know what it might feel like to be seduced by Flynn Rutledge. To be expertly kissed by a man capable of the deep, intense emotion that she had already glimpsed in his work. To be taken to bed and caressed by his clever hands, his long fingers gliding over her bare skin, toying and teasing, his body moving deep inside hers. To be tasted and touched and treasured and—

“I have not heard the tales,” Charlotte said, realizing that her breathing wasn’t entirely even. Her breasts ached beneath their bindings, and a pulsing need had settled deep at the juncture of her thighs. Good God, what was wrong with her? She squared her shoulders. “And I cannot imagine that it is either fair or reasonable to assume Lady Cecelia Mountbatten represents the…integrity or decency of all titled women. Or women of any sort, really.” Charlotte wished those words back the second they escaped. She had promised herself that she would not pick a fight with this man. It was injudicious, and one wrong step could cost her everything. But combative was better than besotted. Besotted was beyond foolish.

Besotted was insane.

Rutledge was giving her a hard look. “Right.”

Charlotte couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or serious. But his belligerence and hostility were certainly back in full force. “Look, Mr. Rutledge, I am here to work. I am not your enemy. I am not here to judge you. For your past or anyone who may be a part of it. Your privacy, beyond what you wish to share, is just that. Yours.”

He hadn’t looked away from her but had gone eerily still. “I think you actually mean that.”