locked.
“Go away!” came a groggy voice from within.
“Open this door immediately,” he roared.
Behind him he heard the scurry of footsteps and turned to see his housekeeper and a young maid approaching. “What’s the meaning of this?” He pointed accusingly to the door.
The maid bobbed up and down like a marionette. “I’m terribly sorry, Your Grace. Please, please forgive me.”
He looked to his housekeeper for an explanation. “Jane tried to wake the guest, Your Grace, but the lady was uncooperative. Jane was coming to fetch me in the hopes I could be of assistance.”
Pelham pulled out his pocket watch. “It is now ten past eight. The time for assistance and cooperation is long past. Move aside.” He prepared to kick the door down.
“Wait! Your Grace.”
Pelham glanced at the young maid. She held a key out to him. Glowering, he took it. But just as he made to use it, the door opened.
Pelham was looking down, and the first thing he noticed was her feet were small, bare, and slightly pink against the reds and blues of the plush carpet. His eyes traveled upwards, noting the simple white shift she wore, until he reached the tangle of her hair falling over her shoulders. It was a cascade of moonlight over her porcelain skin. He tried not to stare at that bare flesh too long, tried not to notice how her sleeve was slipping farther, but his eyes lingered.
And when he finally looked at her face, he found he fared little better. Her heavy-lidded eyes, rosy cheeks, and plump mouth gave her a childlike appearance. She looked so young and innocent, without the icy expression she usually wore.
Pelham had the strangest thought. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her back to bed. He wanted to hold her, tell her everything would be well. He would never allow any harm to come to her.
She had obviously driven him to the depths of madness. She was no kitten to be cuddled and petted. This cat had claws.
As if to prove his point, she said, “What is the cause of that infernal pounding?”
He glowered at her. In response, she yawned.
“Madam, it is”—he glanced at the pocket watch he still held ready in his hand—“eleven minutes past eight o’clock. You are late.”
“Late?” She ran a hand through her hair. The nightshift she wore was voluminous, but the action outlined the curve of her breast. “Is the magistrate here?”
Pelham glared at the maid. “Did you not inform her of my schedule?”
She nodded furiously. “I did, Your Grace. I swear it.”
He turned back to the courtesan and gave her an expectant look. She merely slid her errant sleeve back onto her shoulder and moved away from the door. “She’s a good girl. Your Jane did tell me, but I’m afraid I am too fatigued to eat breakfast this morning.”
From the doorway, Pelham watched in stupefaction as she padded back to the bed. She parted the curtains. “Wake me when the magistrate arrives.”
The curtains closed, and all was silent.
Pelham stood rooted in place for three ticks of the clock. He shook his head, half expecting to wake at any moment. But this was no nightmare.
Fortunately, he knew how to deal with defiance.
He marched into the bedchamber, threw the bed curtains open, and stared down at the courtesan. She was lying on her back, her blonde hair fanned out on her pillow. She gazed up at him. “I don’t recall inviting you to my bed.”
“This is my bed,” he said, punching the drapes with his finger. “And I have no intention of sharing it with you. I wouldn’t touch you if you were the last woman on earth.”
Her brows rose. “That’s a bit drastic.”
“Get up,” he ordered.
“Why?”
“Get up and come to breakfast.”
She didn’t move. “Why? What is so important about breakfast?”
“It’s how things are done. Now get up before I pick you up.”
“I thought you didn’t want to touch me.”
“Devil take it!” he roared. “You are the most exasperating woman I have ever
“Go away!” came a groggy voice from within.
“Open this door immediately,” he roared.
Behind him he heard the scurry of footsteps and turned to see his housekeeper and a young maid approaching. “What’s the meaning of this?” He pointed accusingly to the door.
The maid bobbed up and down like a marionette. “I’m terribly sorry, Your Grace. Please, please forgive me.”
He looked to his housekeeper for an explanation. “Jane tried to wake the guest, Your Grace, but the lady was uncooperative. Jane was coming to fetch me in the hopes I could be of assistance.”
Pelham pulled out his pocket watch. “It is now ten past eight. The time for assistance and cooperation is long past. Move aside.” He prepared to kick the door down.
“Wait! Your Grace.”
Pelham glanced at the young maid. She held a key out to him. Glowering, he took it. But just as he made to use it, the door opened.
Pelham was looking down, and the first thing he noticed was her feet were small, bare, and slightly pink against the reds and blues of the plush carpet. His eyes traveled upwards, noting the simple white shift she wore, until he reached the tangle of her hair falling over her shoulders. It was a cascade of moonlight over her porcelain skin. He tried not to stare at that bare flesh too long, tried not to notice how her sleeve was slipping farther, but his eyes lingered.
And when he finally looked at her face, he found he fared little better. Her heavy-lidded eyes, rosy cheeks, and plump mouth gave her a childlike appearance. She looked so young and innocent, without the icy expression she usually wore.
Pelham had the strangest thought. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her back to bed. He wanted to hold her, tell her everything would be well. He would never allow any harm to come to her.
She had obviously driven him to the depths of madness. She was no kitten to be cuddled and petted. This cat had claws.
As if to prove his point, she said, “What is the cause of that infernal pounding?”
He glowered at her. In response, she yawned.
“Madam, it is”—he glanced at the pocket watch he still held ready in his hand—“eleven minutes past eight o’clock. You are late.”
“Late?” She ran a hand through her hair. The nightshift she wore was voluminous, but the action outlined the curve of her breast. “Is the magistrate here?”
Pelham glared at the maid. “Did you not inform her of my schedule?”
She nodded furiously. “I did, Your Grace. I swear it.”
He turned back to the courtesan and gave her an expectant look. She merely slid her errant sleeve back onto her shoulder and moved away from the door. “She’s a good girl. Your Jane did tell me, but I’m afraid I am too fatigued to eat breakfast this morning.”
From the doorway, Pelham watched in stupefaction as she padded back to the bed. She parted the curtains. “Wake me when the magistrate arrives.”
The curtains closed, and all was silent.
Pelham stood rooted in place for three ticks of the clock. He shook his head, half expecting to wake at any moment. But this was no nightmare.
Fortunately, he knew how to deal with defiance.
He marched into the bedchamber, threw the bed curtains open, and stared down at the courtesan. She was lying on her back, her blonde hair fanned out on her pillow. She gazed up at him. “I don’t recall inviting you to my bed.”
“This is my bed,” he said, punching the drapes with his finger. “And I have no intention of sharing it with you. I wouldn’t touch you if you were the last woman on earth.”
Her brows rose. “That’s a bit drastic.”
“Get up,” he ordered.
“Why?”
“Get up and come to breakfast.”
She didn’t move. “Why? What is so important about breakfast?”
“It’s how things are done. Now get up before I pick you up.”
“I thought you didn’t want to touch me.”
“Devil take it!” he roared. “You are the most exasperating woman I have ever
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