me,” he said, winding a piece of hair around his hand and pulling her toward him. “It disturbs me very much.”
“Oh.” Her eyes grew wide with understanding. Oh. His spicy cologne filled her senses. Her eyes fluttered shut.
A roaring growl burst the quiet moment as George leapt upon them, a huge mass of muscle and fur, knocking Alexander away from Francie and pinning him to the ground.
“Damn you, George!” Alexander bit out. “Get off of me, you beast. Now!”
The dog whimpered once, lifted his paws from Alexander’s chest, and moved his huge frame to lie by Francie.
Alexander pushed himself up in three quick moves. Anger permeated the room and the man himself.
She heard it in the sound of his rapid, unsteady breathing, saw it in the controlled, jerky movements of his hands as he straightened his jacket and brushed at the tan hair covering his trousers.
Whatever was about to happen before George charged Alexander was over.
Francie couldn’t be angry with George. He was only doing what he’d been trained to do—protect his mistress from danger.
Was she in danger from Mr. Bishop? She wished she knew.
“Come, George,” Alexander’s deep voice boomed from behind her. “Now!”
Francie watched in amazement as George sat up and, without a backward glance toward his mistress, followed Alexander out of the room.
Chapter 8
“Why would you want to invite someone like Bishop to supper?”
Claire Ashcroft heard the annoyance in her father’s voice. Edgar Ashcroft, Earl of Belmont, never associated with anyone lower than a viscount. It was his rule. A person beneath his rank couldn’t possibly have anything interesting to say.
Alexander Bishop fell well below the rank of viscount. He was a commoner. A captivating, dark, arrogant commoner. And Claire wanted him. Had wanted him since the moment he’d touched her, pulled her into his arms, and carried her to his waiting horse. Never mind the reason for the touch—a gallant rescue—he’d touched her. She remembered still the sizzle of his fingers as they grazed bare flesh. Ah, but he would prove an exquisite lover.
She’d thought he might send his calling card the next day, or certainly, within the next three. Alexander Bishop did neither. The apparent indifference continued, even after their second encounter and another rescue. No man had ever possessed the strength or will to turn away Claire’s advances. Until Alexander. He became her challenge. Her desire. Her obsession .
She smoothed out the folds of her peach day gown, adjusting the lace at the cuffs. French lace, from Madame Druillard’s, the finest modiste in London. Only the best. It was what her father bred her to expect these past eighteen years. He’d given her everything she’d ever asked for from the time she could point. A pony at five, two horses at thirteen. Silks, satins, rubies, diamonds, and more. So much more.
He’d give her Alexander Bishop, too.
Claire turned to her father and gave him a sweet smile. He never could resist her when she smiled at him and lowered her voice to just above a desperate whisper, as though she’d die if he didn’t grant her request.
“Alexander Bishop has a fine reputation, Father.”
“As what? A stable boy?” He grunted and grabbed his glass of port, his ice-blue eyes narrowing in disgust.
“As a gentleman,” Claire countered. “I’ve had occasion to meet him and was quite impressed.”
“That he managed to string two syllables together?” The earl took a healthy swallow of his drink. “Or that manure didn’t cling to his boots?”
“Father, really!”
The earl’s lips curved in a twisted smile. “The truth is not often a welcome bedfellow.”
Truth . Claire wondered what her father would say, if, in the name of truth, she divulged her string of lovers, many of whom fell well below the station of baron? If she were to tell him about the cook’s son and the groomsman? And what of her father, the mighty Earl of
“Oh.” Her eyes grew wide with understanding. Oh. His spicy cologne filled her senses. Her eyes fluttered shut.
A roaring growl burst the quiet moment as George leapt upon them, a huge mass of muscle and fur, knocking Alexander away from Francie and pinning him to the ground.
“Damn you, George!” Alexander bit out. “Get off of me, you beast. Now!”
The dog whimpered once, lifted his paws from Alexander’s chest, and moved his huge frame to lie by Francie.
Alexander pushed himself up in three quick moves. Anger permeated the room and the man himself.
She heard it in the sound of his rapid, unsteady breathing, saw it in the controlled, jerky movements of his hands as he straightened his jacket and brushed at the tan hair covering his trousers.
Whatever was about to happen before George charged Alexander was over.
Francie couldn’t be angry with George. He was only doing what he’d been trained to do—protect his mistress from danger.
Was she in danger from Mr. Bishop? She wished she knew.
“Come, George,” Alexander’s deep voice boomed from behind her. “Now!”
Francie watched in amazement as George sat up and, without a backward glance toward his mistress, followed Alexander out of the room.
Chapter 8
“Why would you want to invite someone like Bishop to supper?”
Claire Ashcroft heard the annoyance in her father’s voice. Edgar Ashcroft, Earl of Belmont, never associated with anyone lower than a viscount. It was his rule. A person beneath his rank couldn’t possibly have anything interesting to say.
Alexander Bishop fell well below the rank of viscount. He was a commoner. A captivating, dark, arrogant commoner. And Claire wanted him. Had wanted him since the moment he’d touched her, pulled her into his arms, and carried her to his waiting horse. Never mind the reason for the touch—a gallant rescue—he’d touched her. She remembered still the sizzle of his fingers as they grazed bare flesh. Ah, but he would prove an exquisite lover.
She’d thought he might send his calling card the next day, or certainly, within the next three. Alexander Bishop did neither. The apparent indifference continued, even after their second encounter and another rescue. No man had ever possessed the strength or will to turn away Claire’s advances. Until Alexander. He became her challenge. Her desire. Her obsession .
She smoothed out the folds of her peach day gown, adjusting the lace at the cuffs. French lace, from Madame Druillard’s, the finest modiste in London. Only the best. It was what her father bred her to expect these past eighteen years. He’d given her everything she’d ever asked for from the time she could point. A pony at five, two horses at thirteen. Silks, satins, rubies, diamonds, and more. So much more.
He’d give her Alexander Bishop, too.
Claire turned to her father and gave him a sweet smile. He never could resist her when she smiled at him and lowered her voice to just above a desperate whisper, as though she’d die if he didn’t grant her request.
“Alexander Bishop has a fine reputation, Father.”
“As what? A stable boy?” He grunted and grabbed his glass of port, his ice-blue eyes narrowing in disgust.
“As a gentleman,” Claire countered. “I’ve had occasion to meet him and was quite impressed.”
“That he managed to string two syllables together?” The earl took a healthy swallow of his drink. “Or that manure didn’t cling to his boots?”
“Father, really!”
The earl’s lips curved in a twisted smile. “The truth is not often a welcome bedfellow.”
Truth . Claire wondered what her father would say, if, in the name of truth, she divulged her string of lovers, many of whom fell well below the station of baron? If she were to tell him about the cook’s son and the groomsman? And what of her father, the mighty Earl of
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