met.”
“That’s not the usual compliment I receive in my bedchamber, but I know you are out of practice.”
“That’s it.” He reached down and lifted her, bedclothes and all, into his arms. She was a tall woman, and he was surprised she felt so light.
And so soft.
Even with the bedclothes between them, he could feel the curves of her body.
“Put me down,” she demanded.
He marched toward the door, ignoring the startled stares of the servants standing there.
“You cannot really mean to carry me downstairs in this state.”
“You brought it upon yourself,” he replied.
“I am not a child, Will.”
“Don’t call me that.” He started down the stairs.
“Put me down.”
“No.”
“This is beyond the pale,” she seethed. “You do realize that, don’t you?”
He did. He knew he was acting in the most ridiculous manner imaginable, and yet he seemed unable to stop himself. She had tested the limits of his patience, and she had won. He’d snapped. He deserved to be carted off to Bedlam. That was the only explanation for his present conduct.
He marched past the row of servants on the ground floor, all of them pretending to be quite busy with their dusting. Since when did footmen dust? He kicked the door of the dining room open, stomped to the far end of the table, and glared at the footman looking as though he wanted to melt into the wall.
“Chair,” Pelham growled.
The footman jumped into action, pulling the courtesan’s chair out. Without ceremony, Pelham deposited her into it then walked, calmly, to his own place, opened the Times and began to read.
A footman filled his teacup with hot tea—black as he liked it. He heard another footman offering the courtesan an assortment of refreshments. In a pleasant voice, she asked for chocolate. Of course she would want something decadent.
He continued reading his paper—or at least pretending to. A moment later, the footman retreated to his spot against the wall, and the courtesan rose. He eyed her above his paper. She perused the contents of the sideboard, dragging the bedclothes behind her as though they were a train and she a queen. It did not matter that her feet were bare; it did not matter that her hair tumbled in an unruly mass down her back; it did not matter that that damned sleeve had fallen off her shoulder again. She acted as though being dragged out of bed, carried down the stairs, and dumped into a chair in the dining room were an everyday occurrence.
Perhaps it was.
He eyed his pocket watch. “It is now a quarter past eight,” he informed her. “You have precisely fifteen minutes to eat.”
He thought she would argue with him, but instead she said—without even glancing his way—“Do you ever cease looking at that watch of yours? I think it must be permanently affixed to your hand.”
“Some of us must live our lives on a schedule,” he answered.
She lifted a plate. “Eat on a schedule, sleep on a schedule, walk on a schedule. Tell me, do you visit the privy on a schedule, as well?”
He rose. “An inappropriate comment. I expect nothing less.”
Now she did look at him, those blue eyes frigid. “You are the one who dragged me out of bed, Will. I expected quite a bit more.”
He went to the sideboard and began to fill a plate without even looking at his choices. He piled food on the plate, sat, and ate mechanically. He couldn’t say why this last barb stabbed him when so many of her others completely missed their mark. He did not want to care what this fallen woman thought of him. He didn’t owe her anything. She had come to him. He should have turned her out.
He’d let her think he allowed her to stay because he wanted her present for the magistrate’s visit this morning, but that was not the whole truth. He’d seen something in her eyes as she stood in his parlor—something he very much believed to be fear. How could he turn a frightened woman out on the street?
That would make him too much like…
He
“That’s not the usual compliment I receive in my bedchamber, but I know you are out of practice.”
“That’s it.” He reached down and lifted her, bedclothes and all, into his arms. She was a tall woman, and he was surprised she felt so light.
And so soft.
Even with the bedclothes between them, he could feel the curves of her body.
“Put me down,” she demanded.
He marched toward the door, ignoring the startled stares of the servants standing there.
“You cannot really mean to carry me downstairs in this state.”
“You brought it upon yourself,” he replied.
“I am not a child, Will.”
“Don’t call me that.” He started down the stairs.
“Put me down.”
“No.”
“This is beyond the pale,” she seethed. “You do realize that, don’t you?”
He did. He knew he was acting in the most ridiculous manner imaginable, and yet he seemed unable to stop himself. She had tested the limits of his patience, and she had won. He’d snapped. He deserved to be carted off to Bedlam. That was the only explanation for his present conduct.
He marched past the row of servants on the ground floor, all of them pretending to be quite busy with their dusting. Since when did footmen dust? He kicked the door of the dining room open, stomped to the far end of the table, and glared at the footman looking as though he wanted to melt into the wall.
“Chair,” Pelham growled.
The footman jumped into action, pulling the courtesan’s chair out. Without ceremony, Pelham deposited her into it then walked, calmly, to his own place, opened the Times and began to read.
A footman filled his teacup with hot tea—black as he liked it. He heard another footman offering the courtesan an assortment of refreshments. In a pleasant voice, she asked for chocolate. Of course she would want something decadent.
He continued reading his paper—or at least pretending to. A moment later, the footman retreated to his spot against the wall, and the courtesan rose. He eyed her above his paper. She perused the contents of the sideboard, dragging the bedclothes behind her as though they were a train and she a queen. It did not matter that her feet were bare; it did not matter that her hair tumbled in an unruly mass down her back; it did not matter that that damned sleeve had fallen off her shoulder again. She acted as though being dragged out of bed, carried down the stairs, and dumped into a chair in the dining room were an everyday occurrence.
Perhaps it was.
He eyed his pocket watch. “It is now a quarter past eight,” he informed her. “You have precisely fifteen minutes to eat.”
He thought she would argue with him, but instead she said—without even glancing his way—“Do you ever cease looking at that watch of yours? I think it must be permanently affixed to your hand.”
“Some of us must live our lives on a schedule,” he answered.
She lifted a plate. “Eat on a schedule, sleep on a schedule, walk on a schedule. Tell me, do you visit the privy on a schedule, as well?”
He rose. “An inappropriate comment. I expect nothing less.”
Now she did look at him, those blue eyes frigid. “You are the one who dragged me out of bed, Will. I expected quite a bit more.”
He went to the sideboard and began to fill a plate without even looking at his choices. He piled food on the plate, sat, and ate mechanically. He couldn’t say why this last barb stabbed him when so many of her others completely missed their mark. He did not want to care what this fallen woman thought of him. He didn’t owe her anything. She had come to him. He should have turned her out.
He’d let her think he allowed her to stay because he wanted her present for the magistrate’s visit this morning, but that was not the whole truth. He’d seen something in her eyes as she stood in his parlor—something he very much believed to be fear. How could he turn a frightened woman out on the street?
That would make him too much like…
He
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