even more sharply.
“I have…not.” Not what? She opened her eyes, unable to recall his question, let alone theexceedingly important answer she ought to be coming up with instead of staring.
Something about his bed. About the silken counterpane and all those pillows. Yes, something about sharing—No!
The wily blackguard! “I’ve not changed my mind about sharing anything with you, my lord. Least of all your bed. I am a very happily married woman—”
“So you’ve said, madam.”
“And I meant it.”
“Then what are you doing here in my chamber?” He was casual in his stalking stride, his motion slowed because time had unwound itself. His breeches fitted him too well; the black doeskin caught the shadows and the golden light as it rode the long length of his thighs.
“I was…” He was…simply magnificent. Head to toe and all those remarkable places in between.
A dark pattern of sleek hair glistened across his chest and dove in a wide arrow into the top of his breeches, probably continued diving for some time, ending in all that maleness. The thought stirred up another whirlwind in her breathing, and spread like wildfire through her belly.
The earl had gone from bureaucratic inflexibility to sensuous stalking as he slipped his shirt back on, and a leonine grace brought him effortlessly across the expanse of carpet to stand a few feet from her, glaring down his nose.
“If you were trying to make an escape, madam, you should have turned left instead of right and gone down the back stairs.”
Now that would be silly. Escaping him. This particular him. The rugged, rough-hewn, undulating crags and shadows of Charles Stirling.
“No. I was…” She was staring at him, just staring like a street-corner strumpet. And repeating herself when she ought to be forming a strategy.
“I wasn’t running away, my lord. There’s no point in that; where would I run to?”
“To warn your husband not to return to your little home above the shop?”
Oh, him. She had to remember to keep tabs on this imaginary husband of hers. But Everingham was real, and difficult enough to debate while he was fully clothed.
Though it took every ounce of her resolve, Hollie clasped her hands behind her back and went past him to the upholstered chair near the hearth.
“I’m sure my dear Adam will figure that out for himself. When he returns, he’ll notice me gone, as well as the printing press, and have no reason to stay.” She risked a glance at him and found him nearly dressed again, buttoned to midchest, rolling up his cuffs while he watched her. “I came in here, my lord, to try to reason with you.”
“I’m a very reasonable man.”
Reasonably pig-headed. “I’d like to know where you’re taking my Stanhope.”
“The Crown’s Stanhope. It’s coming here to Everingham for the time being.”
Here! “How is it coming? Who’s dismantling it? Please don’t tell me you mean Summerwell.”
Everingham leaned against the bedpost, looking smug and devilishly pleased with himself. “He’s bringing it by cart. I assume he’ll do whatever it takes to break it down appropriately.”
Oh, no! “With a sledgehammer, I suppose. It’s a delicate machine, my lord. He’ll destroy it if he isn’t careful.”
This seemed to amuse him. “He won’t, madam.”
“And where will you store it when it gets here?”
“The stables, I assume. Or the carriage house.”
Great heavens, no! “Then I have a proposition for you, my lord.”
His eyes darkened again; he came away from the bedpost. “And that is?”
Hollie prayed that the man was as reasonable as he claimed. He was her only hope and her worst possible enemy. “I’d be grateful, my lord, if you would allow me to set up the Stanhope and use it, so that I can continue my ordinary business. Under your supervision, of course.”
Charles held back his smile, because matters were progressing too nicely and she might decipher his motives—just as he had deciphered
“I have…not.” Not what? She opened her eyes, unable to recall his question, let alone theexceedingly important answer she ought to be coming up with instead of staring.
Something about his bed. About the silken counterpane and all those pillows. Yes, something about sharing—No!
The wily blackguard! “I’ve not changed my mind about sharing anything with you, my lord. Least of all your bed. I am a very happily married woman—”
“So you’ve said, madam.”
“And I meant it.”
“Then what are you doing here in my chamber?” He was casual in his stalking stride, his motion slowed because time had unwound itself. His breeches fitted him too well; the black doeskin caught the shadows and the golden light as it rode the long length of his thighs.
“I was…” He was…simply magnificent. Head to toe and all those remarkable places in between.
A dark pattern of sleek hair glistened across his chest and dove in a wide arrow into the top of his breeches, probably continued diving for some time, ending in all that maleness. The thought stirred up another whirlwind in her breathing, and spread like wildfire through her belly.
The earl had gone from bureaucratic inflexibility to sensuous stalking as he slipped his shirt back on, and a leonine grace brought him effortlessly across the expanse of carpet to stand a few feet from her, glaring down his nose.
“If you were trying to make an escape, madam, you should have turned left instead of right and gone down the back stairs.”
Now that would be silly. Escaping him. This particular him. The rugged, rough-hewn, undulating crags and shadows of Charles Stirling.
“No. I was…” She was staring at him, just staring like a street-corner strumpet. And repeating herself when she ought to be forming a strategy.
“I wasn’t running away, my lord. There’s no point in that; where would I run to?”
“To warn your husband not to return to your little home above the shop?”
Oh, him. She had to remember to keep tabs on this imaginary husband of hers. But Everingham was real, and difficult enough to debate while he was fully clothed.
Though it took every ounce of her resolve, Hollie clasped her hands behind her back and went past him to the upholstered chair near the hearth.
“I’m sure my dear Adam will figure that out for himself. When he returns, he’ll notice me gone, as well as the printing press, and have no reason to stay.” She risked a glance at him and found him nearly dressed again, buttoned to midchest, rolling up his cuffs while he watched her. “I came in here, my lord, to try to reason with you.”
“I’m a very reasonable man.”
Reasonably pig-headed. “I’d like to know where you’re taking my Stanhope.”
“The Crown’s Stanhope. It’s coming here to Everingham for the time being.”
Here! “How is it coming? Who’s dismantling it? Please don’t tell me you mean Summerwell.”
Everingham leaned against the bedpost, looking smug and devilishly pleased with himself. “He’s bringing it by cart. I assume he’ll do whatever it takes to break it down appropriately.”
Oh, no! “With a sledgehammer, I suppose. It’s a delicate machine, my lord. He’ll destroy it if he isn’t careful.”
This seemed to amuse him. “He won’t, madam.”
“And where will you store it when it gets here?”
“The stables, I assume. Or the carriage house.”
Great heavens, no! “Then I have a proposition for you, my lord.”
His eyes darkened again; he came away from the bedpost. “And that is?”
Hollie prayed that the man was as reasonable as he claimed. He was her only hope and her worst possible enemy. “I’d be grateful, my lord, if you would allow me to set up the Stanhope and use it, so that I can continue my ordinary business. Under your supervision, of course.”
Charles held back his smile, because matters were progressing too nicely and she might decipher his motives—just as he had deciphered
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