wafting of verbena and jasmine through the stale smokiness of countless cheroots.
He cleared his throat just as she gathered her skirts and took a seat. “Forgive me for not offering you a drink, Lady Alexa. But seeing as our coffers are just about drained dry, I am afraid I cannot afford even the most basic show of hospitality.”
Her eyes, luminous in the intensity of their color, did not flinch in the face of his deliberate sarcasm.
Brave girl , he applauded, even as he tried to goad her into losing her composure. And her temper. Their previous encounters had proved she had one nearly the equal of his own.
“Though I doubt you have any notion what it is like to have creditors snapping at your heels,” he continued. “I assure you that we have no choice but to impose the strictest measures of economy to keep the wolves from our door.”
“Actually I know the feeling all too well, having spent the last few years trying to keep the slate and granite of Becton Manor from crumbling down around my family’s ears.” She fell silent, lowering her gaze to the ledgers and loose papers spread across the scarred desk.
There was no resentment or self-pity in her voice, only a note of wry irony. Connor certainly hadn’t expected an aristocratic young lady to have experienced the grim realities of encroaching poverty. Somewhat taken aback, he covered his uncertainty by propping his elbows upon the desk and steepling his fingers.
Damn. He couldn’t afford to feel sympathy for the chit. Or any emotion, for that matter.
Regrouping, Connor tried another line of attack. “Look, despite the dribble of ink on a rip of foolscap, you have no business being here,” He flung a hand out to indicate the roughhewn file cabinets and hard back chairs crammed into the cramped space, the empty bottles scattered across the threadbare carpet and the peeling plaster walls, dulled by the tallowed film of cheap candles. “This is hardly the sort of environment that a gently reared young lady should be exposed to.”
His grand gesture ended up emphasizing his point to a greater degree than he had intended.
Set behind his desk, atop one of empty crates of rum shoved up against the wainscoting, sat a statue of a phallus, anatomically correct in every little detail, save for being over three feet tall. In the dingy shadows, the pristine whiteness of its smooth marble stood out like…a sore thumb.
Bloody hell.
Snatching his coat from the back of his chair, Connor quickly draped it over the offending member.
On turning back, he found that Alexa’s head had dropped so low that all he could see was a topknot of wheaten curls. The silky strands were bobbing about as her shoulders quivered, and though muffled by the folds of her India shawl, a choked hiccuping was audible.
Bloody hell . Next time he wished to reduce an innocent young lady to hysterics, he would cut right to the chase and haul out an oversized penis.
Not his own, he might add. It would be conspicuously absent from his body, along with his testicles, if Sebastian ever got wind of what had just occurred.
“Accept my apologies, Lady Alexa.” With a gruff cough, he fished a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and held it out. “I intended to be uncivil, but not offensive.”
Her only reaction was a more pronounced rocking to and fro.
Worried that she was about to fall into a dead faint, he half rose from his chair. “Shall I fetch you a glass of sherry? I’m sure there must be a drop left somewhere—”
Alexa finally looked up, her cheeks wet with tears of suppressed mirth. “Oh, no need to waste the last of our precious stock on me,” she gasped. After several deep breaths, she steadied herself and angled a glance over his left shoulder. “How very interesting. Though I only caught a fleeting look, there appear to be a number of differences from that of a ram or a stallion. But I imagine the thrust is the same.”
Connor dropped like a hunk of stone back into his
He cleared his throat just as she gathered her skirts and took a seat. “Forgive me for not offering you a drink, Lady Alexa. But seeing as our coffers are just about drained dry, I am afraid I cannot afford even the most basic show of hospitality.”
Her eyes, luminous in the intensity of their color, did not flinch in the face of his deliberate sarcasm.
Brave girl , he applauded, even as he tried to goad her into losing her composure. And her temper. Their previous encounters had proved she had one nearly the equal of his own.
“Though I doubt you have any notion what it is like to have creditors snapping at your heels,” he continued. “I assure you that we have no choice but to impose the strictest measures of economy to keep the wolves from our door.”
“Actually I know the feeling all too well, having spent the last few years trying to keep the slate and granite of Becton Manor from crumbling down around my family’s ears.” She fell silent, lowering her gaze to the ledgers and loose papers spread across the scarred desk.
There was no resentment or self-pity in her voice, only a note of wry irony. Connor certainly hadn’t expected an aristocratic young lady to have experienced the grim realities of encroaching poverty. Somewhat taken aback, he covered his uncertainty by propping his elbows upon the desk and steepling his fingers.
Damn. He couldn’t afford to feel sympathy for the chit. Or any emotion, for that matter.
Regrouping, Connor tried another line of attack. “Look, despite the dribble of ink on a rip of foolscap, you have no business being here,” He flung a hand out to indicate the roughhewn file cabinets and hard back chairs crammed into the cramped space, the empty bottles scattered across the threadbare carpet and the peeling plaster walls, dulled by the tallowed film of cheap candles. “This is hardly the sort of environment that a gently reared young lady should be exposed to.”
His grand gesture ended up emphasizing his point to a greater degree than he had intended.
Set behind his desk, atop one of empty crates of rum shoved up against the wainscoting, sat a statue of a phallus, anatomically correct in every little detail, save for being over three feet tall. In the dingy shadows, the pristine whiteness of its smooth marble stood out like…a sore thumb.
Bloody hell.
Snatching his coat from the back of his chair, Connor quickly draped it over the offending member.
On turning back, he found that Alexa’s head had dropped so low that all he could see was a topknot of wheaten curls. The silky strands were bobbing about as her shoulders quivered, and though muffled by the folds of her India shawl, a choked hiccuping was audible.
Bloody hell . Next time he wished to reduce an innocent young lady to hysterics, he would cut right to the chase and haul out an oversized penis.
Not his own, he might add. It would be conspicuously absent from his body, along with his testicles, if Sebastian ever got wind of what had just occurred.
“Accept my apologies, Lady Alexa.” With a gruff cough, he fished a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and held it out. “I intended to be uncivil, but not offensive.”
Her only reaction was a more pronounced rocking to and fro.
Worried that she was about to fall into a dead faint, he half rose from his chair. “Shall I fetch you a glass of sherry? I’m sure there must be a drop left somewhere—”
Alexa finally looked up, her cheeks wet with tears of suppressed mirth. “Oh, no need to waste the last of our precious stock on me,” she gasped. After several deep breaths, she steadied herself and angled a glance over his left shoulder. “How very interesting. Though I only caught a fleeting look, there appear to be a number of differences from that of a ram or a stallion. But I imagine the thrust is the same.”
Connor dropped like a hunk of stone back into his
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