Tempting Mr. Weatherstone: A Wallflower Wedding Novella (Originally Appeared in the E-Book Anthology FIVE GOLDEN RINGS) by Vivienne Lorret Page B
Authors: Vivienne Lorret
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and too pointed.
“Has lurking in doorways become your new interest, Pen?” he asked, his deep voice edged with amusement, as if they were sharing a long-standing joke between them.
Even though the fire in the hearth did not appear overly grand, when she breezed in, she instantly felt warmer. “Perhaps I was waiting for a proper invitation.”
“Waiting for an invitation? You?” He didn’t look up from the ledger but shook his head and chuckled.
“Oh, all right,” she said with a hint of drama, so he wouldn’t take her seriously. “I was staring at you.”
“Cataloging my flaws, no doubt.”
“You know me so well.” At least that part was true. After fifteen years—not to mention the fact that they were neighbors, both here and at their country estates—they knew each other well. Sometimes, she thought, too well.
Like now, for instance. She knew he was hungry. Most likely, it had been hours since he’d breakfasted. Like Penelope, he was an early riser, as they had often spoken of their mutual enjoyment of those quiet hours. However, the true reason she knew he was hungry was by the set of his mouth. He pursed his lips ever so slightly and swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving up, then down above his cravat. Then the tip of his tongue gave a leisurely swipe over his bottom lip, before his teeth raked it dry.
She found herself mimicking the action and shifted uncomfortably. Glancing again at the small fire, she was amazed at the heat it put out. She stepped away from it and moved toward the door. “Hinkley?”
The butler appeared before she finished calling his name.
“Would you please see if the cook would prepare a pot of tea for Mr. Weatherstone? Oh, and if she has any scones, those would be nice, as well. No cream, but orange marmalade instead. Thank you.”
“Very good, miss,” he said. Was there a hint of a smile on Hinkley’s face?
No, she told herself. It couldn’t have been. The streets of London would be overrun by toads before Hinkley’s mouth would ever break into a smile.
“Did your sister steal away your cook this morning?” Ethan asked as he printed figures in a tidy script at the bottom of the page before he moved on to the next.
“No. I simply know you’re hungry.” She ignored his scoff of disbelief and fished the sachet out of her pocket. Pulling at the corners, she examined her needlework and found it lacking. Lacking what precisely, she didn’t know. The chrysanthemums were blooming bright red and vivid green, just as they should be. The leaves were pointed and plentiful, just as they should be. And yet, something was lacking.
Nevertheless, she knew his mother would appreciate the gesture. “It’s my guess that your mother is only now breakfasting in her rooms, and so it will be hours before she invites you to luncheon.”
He shook his head as if negating her ability to know this for certain. “And from our many years of acquaintance, you’ve deduced that, like you, I am an early riser, and it’s been hours since I’ve breakfasted. Not to mention, the clock says it’s nearly noon.”
“Yes, there’s that,” she allowed. “And the fact that you always lick your lips when you’re hungry.”
He moved his quill away from the ledger and looked up at her, a curious expression clouding his tea-colored irises. “And the marmalade?”
“You always eat marmalade on your scones.” She shrugged and pulled again at the corners of the sachet.
“Well, you always slather yours with cream,” he announced rather smugly.
“Are we competing now?” She wanted to laugh, but instead felt rather perturbed. How dare he know her so well and still be so . . . so . . . obtuse about everything else.
Turning back to his ledger, he smirked at her. “If we were, I assure you, I would win.”
“Oh really? Then you already know precisely what I came here to tell you this morning.” She smirked back at him and waited.
“Pen, I know better than to fall into one of your
“Has lurking in doorways become your new interest, Pen?” he asked, his deep voice edged with amusement, as if they were sharing a long-standing joke between them.
Even though the fire in the hearth did not appear overly grand, when she breezed in, she instantly felt warmer. “Perhaps I was waiting for a proper invitation.”
“Waiting for an invitation? You?” He didn’t look up from the ledger but shook his head and chuckled.
“Oh, all right,” she said with a hint of drama, so he wouldn’t take her seriously. “I was staring at you.”
“Cataloging my flaws, no doubt.”
“You know me so well.” At least that part was true. After fifteen years—not to mention the fact that they were neighbors, both here and at their country estates—they knew each other well. Sometimes, she thought, too well.
Like now, for instance. She knew he was hungry. Most likely, it had been hours since he’d breakfasted. Like Penelope, he was an early riser, as they had often spoken of their mutual enjoyment of those quiet hours. However, the true reason she knew he was hungry was by the set of his mouth. He pursed his lips ever so slightly and swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving up, then down above his cravat. Then the tip of his tongue gave a leisurely swipe over his bottom lip, before his teeth raked it dry.
She found herself mimicking the action and shifted uncomfortably. Glancing again at the small fire, she was amazed at the heat it put out. She stepped away from it and moved toward the door. “Hinkley?”
The butler appeared before she finished calling his name.
“Would you please see if the cook would prepare a pot of tea for Mr. Weatherstone? Oh, and if she has any scones, those would be nice, as well. No cream, but orange marmalade instead. Thank you.”
“Very good, miss,” he said. Was there a hint of a smile on Hinkley’s face?
No, she told herself. It couldn’t have been. The streets of London would be overrun by toads before Hinkley’s mouth would ever break into a smile.
“Did your sister steal away your cook this morning?” Ethan asked as he printed figures in a tidy script at the bottom of the page before he moved on to the next.
“No. I simply know you’re hungry.” She ignored his scoff of disbelief and fished the sachet out of her pocket. Pulling at the corners, she examined her needlework and found it lacking. Lacking what precisely, she didn’t know. The chrysanthemums were blooming bright red and vivid green, just as they should be. The leaves were pointed and plentiful, just as they should be. And yet, something was lacking.
Nevertheless, she knew his mother would appreciate the gesture. “It’s my guess that your mother is only now breakfasting in her rooms, and so it will be hours before she invites you to luncheon.”
He shook his head as if negating her ability to know this for certain. “And from our many years of acquaintance, you’ve deduced that, like you, I am an early riser, and it’s been hours since I’ve breakfasted. Not to mention, the clock says it’s nearly noon.”
“Yes, there’s that,” she allowed. “And the fact that you always lick your lips when you’re hungry.”
He moved his quill away from the ledger and looked up at her, a curious expression clouding his tea-colored irises. “And the marmalade?”
“You always eat marmalade on your scones.” She shrugged and pulled again at the corners of the sachet.
“Well, you always slather yours with cream,” he announced rather smugly.
“Are we competing now?” She wanted to laugh, but instead felt rather perturbed. How dare he know her so well and still be so . . . so . . . obtuse about everything else.
Turning back to his ledger, he smirked at her. “If we were, I assure you, I would win.”
“Oh really? Then you already know precisely what I came here to tell you this morning.” She smirked back at him and waited.
“Pen, I know better than to fall into one of your
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