rookeries, but never with a beautiful lady in tow. His gut clenched as an image crystallized in his mind of the patrons of the Black Hound gawking when Bella Sinclair walked through the door.
His thoughts raced headlong, and anger toward Sir Redmond Reeves rippled along his spine. Damn him, James thought, for thrusting us into this predicament.
His voice was cold when he spoke. “You’ll need to change. Do you own a darker gown?”
“I have a mourning gown.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why, as a widow of less than a year, she never wore it. Instead, he said, “Good. And fetch a cloak, something that covers you from the neck down.”
She opened her mouth to argue but, spotting a parlor maid and one of the footmen staring from around the corner, thought better of it. They were making quite the spectacle for all the servants to overhear—both hers and his.
She took a deep breath, her green eyes blazing with determination. “I’ll be but a moment, Your Grace.” With a swish of her skirts, she made for the stairs.
James watched as she ascended, her hips swaying with each step.
Magnificent. Despite his anger at having to escort her to the Black Hound against his better judgment, her defiance was a challenge, a novel experience that drew him like a lodestone. He wondered what her reaction would be if she knew just how much her rebelliousness attracted him.
James was waiting beside the carriage when Bella came out of the house. Satisfied with the demure cut of her black dress, he said, “I approve of the dress, but where is your cloak?”
As if on cue, Harriet came out of the house, a dark cloak draped across her arm.
“It’s too warm to wear it,” Bella said. “I thought to carry it with me until we arrive at the Black Hound.”
“I don’t suppose you can convince her to stay here?” James asked Harriet.
The old woman’s brows drew downward in a frown. “I’ve tried, Your Grace. But she has a stubborn streak.”
Stubborn streak indeed, James mused.
Of all the women he had known, every one would have happily stayed in the safety of her home and allowed James to confront Sir Reeves at the Black Hound on his own. Further still, the women of his past would have gladly taken the money James offered for Wyndmoor Manor without a second thought and gone on to spend it lavishly on an opulent lifestyle.
But Bella Sinclair was different.
Despite the odds of feuding with a man, a barrister and duke to boot, she refused to be cowed. He should be annoyed, but as each day passed, he became more intrigued.
“Where’s your carriage?” Bella asked.
“The investigator lent me his in exchange for mine. I had no desire for the patrons of the Black Hound to get a look at the ducal crest on the side of my carriage.”
A footman opened the carriage door and the step was lowered. Bella climbed in, and James settled on the bench across from her. The late-afternoon sun streamed in through the windows, and her auburn hair gleamed deep mahogany and rich red.
She shifted on the soft leather seat, watching out the window as Harriet went into the house and shut the door. Keeping her gaze averted, she sat straight and folded her hands in her lap, clearly determined to ignore him for the duration of the trip just as she had avoided him during the past three days.
Her behavior irked him. He wasn’t used to being ignored by a woman, especially one who had tantalized him after only one kiss. A devilish part of him wanted to upset her composure. He stretched his long legs, brushing her skirts.
She started, and the heavy lashes that shadowed her cheeks flew up. Their eyes met, and she colored.
Ah, she wasn’t as immune as she would have him believe. Only now she appeared nervous, biting her bottom lip, and growing increasingly uneasy under the heat of his gaze. He didn’t want that either. Truth be told, he admired her bravery. She would never play the dreaded damsel in distress that many women had
His thoughts raced headlong, and anger toward Sir Redmond Reeves rippled along his spine. Damn him, James thought, for thrusting us into this predicament.
His voice was cold when he spoke. “You’ll need to change. Do you own a darker gown?”
“I have a mourning gown.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why, as a widow of less than a year, she never wore it. Instead, he said, “Good. And fetch a cloak, something that covers you from the neck down.”
She opened her mouth to argue but, spotting a parlor maid and one of the footmen staring from around the corner, thought better of it. They were making quite the spectacle for all the servants to overhear—both hers and his.
She took a deep breath, her green eyes blazing with determination. “I’ll be but a moment, Your Grace.” With a swish of her skirts, she made for the stairs.
James watched as she ascended, her hips swaying with each step.
Magnificent. Despite his anger at having to escort her to the Black Hound against his better judgment, her defiance was a challenge, a novel experience that drew him like a lodestone. He wondered what her reaction would be if she knew just how much her rebelliousness attracted him.
James was waiting beside the carriage when Bella came out of the house. Satisfied with the demure cut of her black dress, he said, “I approve of the dress, but where is your cloak?”
As if on cue, Harriet came out of the house, a dark cloak draped across her arm.
“It’s too warm to wear it,” Bella said. “I thought to carry it with me until we arrive at the Black Hound.”
“I don’t suppose you can convince her to stay here?” James asked Harriet.
The old woman’s brows drew downward in a frown. “I’ve tried, Your Grace. But she has a stubborn streak.”
Stubborn streak indeed, James mused.
Of all the women he had known, every one would have happily stayed in the safety of her home and allowed James to confront Sir Reeves at the Black Hound on his own. Further still, the women of his past would have gladly taken the money James offered for Wyndmoor Manor without a second thought and gone on to spend it lavishly on an opulent lifestyle.
But Bella Sinclair was different.
Despite the odds of feuding with a man, a barrister and duke to boot, she refused to be cowed. He should be annoyed, but as each day passed, he became more intrigued.
“Where’s your carriage?” Bella asked.
“The investigator lent me his in exchange for mine. I had no desire for the patrons of the Black Hound to get a look at the ducal crest on the side of my carriage.”
A footman opened the carriage door and the step was lowered. Bella climbed in, and James settled on the bench across from her. The late-afternoon sun streamed in through the windows, and her auburn hair gleamed deep mahogany and rich red.
She shifted on the soft leather seat, watching out the window as Harriet went into the house and shut the door. Keeping her gaze averted, she sat straight and folded her hands in her lap, clearly determined to ignore him for the duration of the trip just as she had avoided him during the past three days.
Her behavior irked him. He wasn’t used to being ignored by a woman, especially one who had tantalized him after only one kiss. A devilish part of him wanted to upset her composure. He stretched his long legs, brushing her skirts.
She started, and the heavy lashes that shadowed her cheeks flew up. Their eyes met, and she colored.
Ah, she wasn’t as immune as she would have him believe. Only now she appeared nervous, biting her bottom lip, and growing increasingly uneasy under the heat of his gaze. He didn’t want that either. Truth be told, he admired her bravery. She would never play the dreaded damsel in distress that many women had
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