the
cheese and fruit on the table and retire.
Turning back to his Gypsy, he found her
toying with her wing glass, one hand resting on her stomach and her
stare fixed on the portraits again.
“Would you care for anything else?” he
asked.
She shook her head, and frowned. “You still
have not said why none of your relatives live with you? Is it that
you do not like them, or do they not like you?”
He offered her a blank stare, the empty one
he reserved for such cheeky impertinence. She stared back at him,
her expression expectant, either made immune by wine, or left too
confident by his easy treatment of her. Well, if she would not
leave the subject gracefully, he would give her an answer that
would close the topic.
“If you must know, my aunts—two were my late
mother’s sister, and one of them on my father’s side—generally
prefer the countryside. Since they bestow on me the most ghastly
presents—anything with too much gilt, or my crest upon it—I presume
they do not hold me utter disdain.
“As to my uncles, I have five; four belonging
to my mother’s family, and one is my father’s younger brother. And
they considered their job done with after having given me a
succession of tutors, and then finishing my education with a full
introduction to vice.
“Now, shall I continue with a list of my
assorted cousins, second cousins, and distant connections, or would
you rather I read to you the full lineage from the most recent
edition of Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage ?”
She wrinkled her nose. “You are mocking my
question. And I thought you wanted to charm me?”
“That was before you became a disrespectful
baggage.”
Her eyes glittered. “ Became disrespectful? As if I ever respected you to start with, my
lord.”
Tilting her head, she lifted her wine glass
to her lips, but kept her dark eyes on him, and he could see the
speculation in her eyes.
“Now what? Are you thinking there must be
some dark secret in my past?” He kept his tone flippant. In fact,
he doubted if anyone’s life was as open as his. And why not? His
family never dared criticize him, for he was, after all, the Earl
of St. Albans, and as for the rest of the world, he had no interest
in either its good opinion or even its right to judge him.
His Gypsy stared at him, her eyes wide and
dark, as if taking his full measure, and that set his temper to
simmering.
“What, do you think that I must live a sad,
empty life not to have my family close about me? That I have wealth
and little else? Do allow me to assure you that I lack for
nothing.”
“You lack for parents.”
He stilled instantly. Oh, but she did have a
sharp tongue to so expertly lay bare a scar so old that he had gone
for years without remarking it. He forced himself to relax. He had
long ago learned not to look into that darkness. And she was not
about to bring any of it back to him.
That he would not allow.
Lifting one hand, he waved the matter away.
“I am hardly a poor orphan. Now, shall we retire to a more
comfortable room?”
He rose and held out his hand to her. She
hesitated, still measuring him, but then she put down her wine
glass and rose to give him her hand.
He took her into the smaller drawing room
that overlooked the street. A fire crackled in the grate and only a
few candles burned. The intimate space offered only a low couch
beside the fire and two small side tables.
Seating herself on the couch, she folded her
hands in her lap. “Tell me about your parents? Did you know them at
all?”
Exasperated, he stood before the fire, his
hands folded behind his back and almost tempted to toss her onto
the streets. Was this her method to prevent seduction? If so, it
certainly was remarkably effective.
Staring down at her, he lifted an eyebrow,
and said nothing, but the look he had mastered for leaving the
haughtiest dowager fluttering seemed to have no effect on her. It
must be the wine, he decided. It had gone to her tongue.
He let out a sigh.
cheese and fruit on the table and retire.
Turning back to his Gypsy, he found her
toying with her wing glass, one hand resting on her stomach and her
stare fixed on the portraits again.
“Would you care for anything else?” he
asked.
She shook her head, and frowned. “You still
have not said why none of your relatives live with you? Is it that
you do not like them, or do they not like you?”
He offered her a blank stare, the empty one
he reserved for such cheeky impertinence. She stared back at him,
her expression expectant, either made immune by wine, or left too
confident by his easy treatment of her. Well, if she would not
leave the subject gracefully, he would give her an answer that
would close the topic.
“If you must know, my aunts—two were my late
mother’s sister, and one of them on my father’s side—generally
prefer the countryside. Since they bestow on me the most ghastly
presents—anything with too much gilt, or my crest upon it—I presume
they do not hold me utter disdain.
“As to my uncles, I have five; four belonging
to my mother’s family, and one is my father’s younger brother. And
they considered their job done with after having given me a
succession of tutors, and then finishing my education with a full
introduction to vice.
“Now, shall I continue with a list of my
assorted cousins, second cousins, and distant connections, or would
you rather I read to you the full lineage from the most recent
edition of Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage ?”
She wrinkled her nose. “You are mocking my
question. And I thought you wanted to charm me?”
“That was before you became a disrespectful
baggage.”
Her eyes glittered. “ Became disrespectful? As if I ever respected you to start with, my
lord.”
Tilting her head, she lifted her wine glass
to her lips, but kept her dark eyes on him, and he could see the
speculation in her eyes.
“Now what? Are you thinking there must be
some dark secret in my past?” He kept his tone flippant. In fact,
he doubted if anyone’s life was as open as his. And why not? His
family never dared criticize him, for he was, after all, the Earl
of St. Albans, and as for the rest of the world, he had no interest
in either its good opinion or even its right to judge him.
His Gypsy stared at him, her eyes wide and
dark, as if taking his full measure, and that set his temper to
simmering.
“What, do you think that I must live a sad,
empty life not to have my family close about me? That I have wealth
and little else? Do allow me to assure you that I lack for
nothing.”
“You lack for parents.”
He stilled instantly. Oh, but she did have a
sharp tongue to so expertly lay bare a scar so old that he had gone
for years without remarking it. He forced himself to relax. He had
long ago learned not to look into that darkness. And she was not
about to bring any of it back to him.
That he would not allow.
Lifting one hand, he waved the matter away.
“I am hardly a poor orphan. Now, shall we retire to a more
comfortable room?”
He rose and held out his hand to her. She
hesitated, still measuring him, but then she put down her wine
glass and rose to give him her hand.
He took her into the smaller drawing room
that overlooked the street. A fire crackled in the grate and only a
few candles burned. The intimate space offered only a low couch
beside the fire and two small side tables.
Seating herself on the couch, she folded her
hands in her lap. “Tell me about your parents? Did you know them at
all?”
Exasperated, he stood before the fire, his
hands folded behind his back and almost tempted to toss her onto
the streets. Was this her method to prevent seduction? If so, it
certainly was remarkably effective.
Staring down at her, he lifted an eyebrow,
and said nothing, but the look he had mastered for leaving the
haughtiest dowager fluttering seemed to have no effect on her. It
must be the wine, he decided. It had gone to her tongue.
He let out a sigh.
Similar Books
