necessary.
“I hope you continue to do so, Archer, for we are, indeed, lucky to have you. I know I always sleep happier knowing my lady is under your care.”
Archer blushed—if a reddish hue on his already florid cheeks could constitute blushing. He bowed once more.
“Ah, my lord, I thank you. I know not of one person employed here who would not hesitate to die for her if necessary.”
Another, lighter voice interrupted what could be construed as getting maudlin.
“Who wishes to die for another? Fustian, no one should do that; ‘tis not true that all is well lost for love. Good afternoon, my lord. I trust you have had a fulfilling morning?” Her eyes sparked with—he thought—temper; her lips were red and spelled out danger. From the corner of his eye, Ash saw Archer bow and beat a swift retreat. Apparently, the butler had also seen the signs and seemed determined to get out of the firing line. Sensible man.
Briefly, Ash wondered what had happened to upset her. It could be nothing he had said or done, surely? Ah, well, no doubt I’ll find out soon enough.
He watched her closely, and she waited until Archer had closed the door safely behind him before gesturing to the long amber velvet chaise.
“Please be seated, my lord. Unpleasant news is always imbibed better when seated, I feel.”
What the deuce? And why so formal all of a sudden? He had never heard the words “my lord” uttered so many times in such a short space of time. He might be known as a stickler for protocol when it was required, but in situations such as this, he was always Ash, Ashley, or simply Addersley. Not the whole pomp and circumstance my lord. Warily, he did as she bid and watched as she carefully settled beside him, smoothing her day dress over her lap. Or was it a day dress? Well-versed in the etiquette of correct dress for ladies of the Ton, he rather thought this attire more suited to an evening affair. He watched her hands as they settled the flimsy material and recognized the shapes and shadows he could see as the outlines of her legs and the contours of her stomach. He looked upward as she casually patted one dark brunette curl into submission, and with a conclusion that sent a bolt of awareness to his balls, realized he had seen no dark shadow underneath the material. His cock reacted predictably—with interest and awareness as he assimilated his thoughts.
No curls? No muff to dive into? This marriage could be more interesting than he had previously thought.
Ash, on asking Adriana for her hand in marriage, had not expected to be refused. His intended was no simpering debutante, but a woman of nine and twenty. To all intents and purposes an old maid—on the shelf and destined for a life of spinsterhood. To him, she was a woman with hidden depths, a woman who ran her own household, could converse and hold her own in any circumstance, and would manage his many establishments with aplomb. Without, he thought, bothering him overmuch in the process.
Naturally, he would need an heir—and a spare. With her sangfroid, she had replied with an, “Of course, my Lord.” When they had discussed the arrangement in person, with him assuring her he would not bother her overmuch, she had merely smiled.
Now sitting next to her waiting for her to speak, he wondered if his reading of her had been altogether correct. Never would he have said she had a temper; indeed, he thought her almost placid. However, as he watched her eyes flash and saw her nipples stiffen against their confines, he had pause to ponder if Molly had been right with her comment that Adriana had hidden depths.
Unthinking, he picked up one soft white hand and began to play with the elegant fingers. He pressed a kiss to each digit, enjoying the soft roundness as he did so. A tremor racked her body, sending a shudder of pleasure through his own as he became aware of the effect he was having on her.
“My dear, I apologize. I forgot myself.” He went to extract his hand,
“I hope you continue to do so, Archer, for we are, indeed, lucky to have you. I know I always sleep happier knowing my lady is under your care.”
Archer blushed—if a reddish hue on his already florid cheeks could constitute blushing. He bowed once more.
“Ah, my lord, I thank you. I know not of one person employed here who would not hesitate to die for her if necessary.”
Another, lighter voice interrupted what could be construed as getting maudlin.
“Who wishes to die for another? Fustian, no one should do that; ‘tis not true that all is well lost for love. Good afternoon, my lord. I trust you have had a fulfilling morning?” Her eyes sparked with—he thought—temper; her lips were red and spelled out danger. From the corner of his eye, Ash saw Archer bow and beat a swift retreat. Apparently, the butler had also seen the signs and seemed determined to get out of the firing line. Sensible man.
Briefly, Ash wondered what had happened to upset her. It could be nothing he had said or done, surely? Ah, well, no doubt I’ll find out soon enough.
He watched her closely, and she waited until Archer had closed the door safely behind him before gesturing to the long amber velvet chaise.
“Please be seated, my lord. Unpleasant news is always imbibed better when seated, I feel.”
What the deuce? And why so formal all of a sudden? He had never heard the words “my lord” uttered so many times in such a short space of time. He might be known as a stickler for protocol when it was required, but in situations such as this, he was always Ash, Ashley, or simply Addersley. Not the whole pomp and circumstance my lord. Warily, he did as she bid and watched as she carefully settled beside him, smoothing her day dress over her lap. Or was it a day dress? Well-versed in the etiquette of correct dress for ladies of the Ton, he rather thought this attire more suited to an evening affair. He watched her hands as they settled the flimsy material and recognized the shapes and shadows he could see as the outlines of her legs and the contours of her stomach. He looked upward as she casually patted one dark brunette curl into submission, and with a conclusion that sent a bolt of awareness to his balls, realized he had seen no dark shadow underneath the material. His cock reacted predictably—with interest and awareness as he assimilated his thoughts.
No curls? No muff to dive into? This marriage could be more interesting than he had previously thought.
Ash, on asking Adriana for her hand in marriage, had not expected to be refused. His intended was no simpering debutante, but a woman of nine and twenty. To all intents and purposes an old maid—on the shelf and destined for a life of spinsterhood. To him, she was a woman with hidden depths, a woman who ran her own household, could converse and hold her own in any circumstance, and would manage his many establishments with aplomb. Without, he thought, bothering him overmuch in the process.
Naturally, he would need an heir—and a spare. With her sangfroid, she had replied with an, “Of course, my Lord.” When they had discussed the arrangement in person, with him assuring her he would not bother her overmuch, she had merely smiled.
Now sitting next to her waiting for her to speak, he wondered if his reading of her had been altogether correct. Never would he have said she had a temper; indeed, he thought her almost placid. However, as he watched her eyes flash and saw her nipples stiffen against their confines, he had pause to ponder if Molly had been right with her comment that Adriana had hidden depths.
Unthinking, he picked up one soft white hand and began to play with the elegant fingers. He pressed a kiss to each digit, enjoying the soft roundness as he did so. A tremor racked her body, sending a shudder of pleasure through his own as he became aware of the effect he was having on her.
“My dear, I apologize. I forgot myself.” He went to extract his hand,
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