"How?" she asked, her brows drawing together slightly.
"Word travels," he replied.
A half-truth. Enough to satisfy.
"Thank you," Livia said. "Thank you so much." Her fingers clasped together tightly in front of her.
"You seem relieved," he said, "for some reason." He had rehearsed an entirely different opening.
"I just—" she paused, reconsidering, then shrugged. "Well. Better you than the lot that visit the tavern."
"I'm quite sure the lot that visit the tavern aren't exclusive enough to pay what Mr Beaumont requested for your—"
"My virginity?"
"That," Henry said. He had the decency to look slightly uncomfortable.
Livia uncrossed her arms. "Well," she said again, "I'm glad it's you."
"Would you be glad," he asked, "if it were under normal circumstances?"
"What circumstances?" Livia asked.
"You know," Henry said, with a small gesture. "Boy meets girl. Girl meets boy."
Livia found that she was actually considering it. Genuinely considering it. She looked at him.
He was tall — not absurdly so. Dark hair, fashionably arranged. His coat was well cut which told her he had money but hadn't recently acquired it. His eyes, she noticed, were waiting.
"Well," Livia said, "you don't hurt to look at."
One corner of his mouth moved.
"Your breath doesn't stink." She tilted her head slightly. "And you seem—" she paused, genuinely searching, "—adequately intelligent."
"Adequately." He repeated the word slowly.
"Mm."
"My word." He raised a brow, and his lips twitched in a smile he was clearly fighting to suppress and equally clearly losing. "I do not think I have ever been so insulted in all my years."
"It's a compliment," Livia offered pleasantly.
"Is it."
"It is."
"I see." He clasped his hands behind his back. "Then perhaps we need to address the meaning of the word adequately."
"It means what it means."
"It means," Henry said, with the precision of someone who had clearly received an excellent education, "a narrow escape into average."
She couldn't help it, the corner of her mouth betrayed her. "You seem offended to be called average," she observed.
"Because it is not accurate."
"No?"
"No." He said.
"You would prefer exceptional?"
"I would prefer accurate."
"And you believe accurate and exceptional to be synonymous."
"In this particular case," he said, "yes."
She was, she realised, smiling. She pressed her lips together firmly.
"There is nothing average about me, Livia," Henry said.
"Is that arrogance I sense, sir?"
Henry stepped forward. He was closing a distance that had become inconvenient for conversation. The step brought him near enough that she had to adjust her gaze upward to maintain it. He was taller than she'd fully appreciated from across the room.
She didn't step back. Most people stepped back. It was reflexive. Livia held her ground and held his gaze.
He wondered. If she knew — if she knew who he actually was — would this end? Would the sharpness leave her eyes?
Would she dumb herself down to buoy his own intellect? Would she cower, instead of looking at him the way she was doing right now?
God, he hoped not. His gaze dropped to her lips. He didn't plan it. Didn't sanction it. His eyes simply — moved. Her mouth was slightly parted, and for one fraction of a second—
He snatched his gaze back up to her face. If she'd noticed, she gave no indication. She simply continued looking at him with those dark, steady, deeply inconvenient eyes.
Henry clasped his hands behind his back. A return to formality. "The book I sent," he said, with what he felt was admirable composure. "Canzoniere. Did you finish it already?"
"I told you," Livia said, "I read it before. In Florence."
"That is not what I asked. I asked if you'd finished it. Here. In London."
"Yes," she said. "It makes the nights at the brothel bearable," she said.
"Why don't you tell me about it?" He moved, while saying it, toward the chair nearest the writing desk, and settled into it, one ankle resting across the opposite knee.
"Henry," Livia said slowly. "What are you doing?"
"I'm sitting," he said, with mild confusion.
"I can see that."
"Then—"
"What are you doing." She said it again, and this time the emphasis was different.
Henry looked at her. The candlelight moved across his face and she searched it for the thing she expected to find — some concealed motive, some elaborate performance of restraint designed to make her feel grateful, compliant, disarmed. He simply looked — thoughtful. Mildly puzzled, even.
"Do you not think me pretty enough," Livia asked, keeping her voice even, entirely without self-pity — she was very deliberate about that — "that you decide to stall with the inevitable?"
"I don't follow."
She gestured between them — at the room, at him, at herself standing beside the bed, a stage prop awaiting its cue. "You pay so much for me," she said. "Enough to last a month. You bring me here in a carriage like some noble lady, and now you want to sit in a chair and discuss Petrarch."
A pause.
"Yes," Henry said.
"Why."
He opened his mouth.
"And do not," she added, "say why not. I will throw the candle holder at your head."
He closed his mouth. Then, with somewhat more care: "I merely acquired your time. Your time," he repeated, clarifying. "Not your—" he paused, "—virginity."
"Then I beg of you, sir." "Please. Take it. Even if you do not find me pleasurable to your eyes. You may cover my face, if you will." She pressed on. "Please. I would rather it be you than wait for whatever comes next. Whatever Beaumont decides comes next."
Henry looked up at her from the chair. "Why?" he said. He raised a brow. "Taking it makes me no different from the men I think despicable. Lining up for—" his jaw tightened, barely perceptibly, "—it."
"Henry… if you do not, who knows who my first time will be with." Livia's voice trembled, but she held his gaze. "Consider this another favour you will do me. Please."