The Maddening Lord Montwood(3)

“You honor us greatly with your patronage, my lady.” Mrs. Hunter bowed her head, because, apparently, a single curtsy was not enough. “I have tea prepared in my office if your ladyship would care for refreshment.”

Mrs. Hunter’s office was a large oaken desk at the opposite side of the room. From her perch, she typically kept close watch on every dealing that Frances and Kaye had with the servants who came in seeking work, and also the ladies and gentlemen who sought to hire them.

Displaying an excessive amount of deference, Mrs. Hunter drew Lady Binghamton and her charge across the room. In the seconds that passed, Frances worried that the gentleman would close the door and leave. That he would simply go on with whatever errand had brought him to this street. Yet to her surprise, he lingered. In fact, he stepped inside.

Frances dared a look. Then, an instant, unwelcome jolt of recognition trampled through her.

Lord Lucan Montwood. He was the farthest thing from a gallant knight of old that she could imagine. No wonder he lurked in the shadows. He belonged there. Not only was he a renowned gambler and rake, but he came from an unscrupulous family. His father, the Marquess of Camdonbury, had accused her very own father—their former steward—of treason. In the two and a half years since, she’d suspected more than once that the marquess had been guilty of the coining offense.

Now, her father wore a thief’s T branded into the flesh of his thumb for the rest of his life. The punishment for such a crime was usually death by hanging. Yet by some miracle, the evidence against her father had disappeared. He’d been released from gaol but never once spoke about it.

Her breath came out in a rush of disappointment. Against her will, she curtsied, but only because Mrs. Hunter kept scrutinizing her behavior of late.

“Miss Thorne.” Lucan Montwood flashed a smile, revealing a dimple on one side of his mouth. She imagined a serpent must look the same before giving a taste of his venom.

“My lord,” she said through gritted teeth. After introducing Kaye, who then turned to help Mrs. Hunter with the tea, Frances expected him to leave at once. Yet he did not.

Lucan doffed his hat and tucked it beneath his arm. Not a strand of his dark hair was out of place. And beneath a thick brow, his amber gaze held a peculiar light, there in the shadows. The color of his eyes had always fascinated her. In her youth, before her mother’s death and before his family had betrayed her father, she would visit her father at Camdonbury Place. Yet all the while, she’d hoped to cross paths with Lucan. Even though they were only a year apart in age, he’d always seemed so worldly to her. And with those eyes, he’d looked at her as if he knew worldly things. The types of things that her mother had warned her against.

Her infatuation had been a girlish one, born of naiveté. Soon enough, she’d learned that men like Lucan were born deceivers. And Frances had had her fill of deception.

“What a serendipitous meeting,” he said. “Had I not been nearby, I’d not have had the opportunity to renew our acquaintance.”

Since he knew of her vehement dislike of him, she chose to ignore his goading. “Her ladyship was quite fortunate that you happened along. Although, I am surprised that you chose to rescue a perfectly innocent shawl instead of sending it to the gallows, as you and your family are wont to do.”

He stared at her for a moment—long enough for her to adjust her spectacles—as a slow, daring grin revealed that dimple of his once more. Truly, a man so diabolical should not have such an appealing dimple. She loathed that dimple and the man who wore it.

“If I’d known that I had an audience, I’d have sent a wink to the”—he pointed upward with one long, gloved finger—“second-floor window? You must have rushed down the stairs. That would explain the high color of your cheeks when I first walked in. Ah! And there it is again.”

Drat it all. Normally, she was clever about hiding her thoughts. On the outside, she made sure to keep a proper, respectable appearance, hiding her adamant curiosity of the opposite sex. Leave it to a serpent to conjure a way of seeing beneath. “The light is dim where we stand. You are only revealing your own arrogance for what you wish to be true. I merely caught a glimpse of your . . . manipulation of her ladyship’s shawl.”

“Your judgment of me is harsh indeed. I suppose it is true that the wasp gives no warning before she stings,” he drawled, inclining his head. Then he leaned forward ever so slightly and lowered his voice to a whisper. “But what a sweet pain it is, Miss Thorne.”

Wasp, indeed. Yet instead of feeling justified or even contrite, Frances felt the thrumming of her pulse and the heat of midday burning inside of her. The scent that swirled around her as he drew back left her befuddled. She would expect that a rake known for gambling would smell like whiskey, smoke, and whatever else one might find in a gaming hell. Instead, he smelled of freshly ironed sheets and what she could only describe as midnight—a dark, earthy fragrance sweetened by the dew on the grass.