Read Online No Man's Mistress by Mary Balogh - Free Book Online Page B

breakfast table later, still eating, when he strode into the dining room. Even though she had been expecting him and had steeled herself to having her privacy invaded, her heart felt as if it were hammering against her ribs. If this had to be happening at all, why could he not be an old man or an ugly man or in some way an unappealing man? Why should she be made to feel as if the very essence of maleness had just filled the room to suffocate her?
    He had obviously come straight from his ride. His buff riding breeches hugged his long, well-muscled legs like a second skin. His boots must have been freshly polished last night and still shone. He was wearing a well-tailored brown riding coat with a white shirt beneath. She had spent enough years in London to recognize in him a regular top sawyer, an out-and-outer, as other gentlemen would call him. His dark hair was tousled from his hat and the outdoors. His face glowed with healthy color.
    He was also smiling and looking annoyingly goodhumored.
    “Good morning, Miss Thornhill.” He sketched her a bow. “And what a beautiful morning it is. I was awoken by a cockerel crowing beneath my window and so was out riding in time to watch the sun rise. I had forgotten how exhilarating life in the country can be.”
    He rubbed his hands together and looked about the room, hunger written all over his face. The sideboard was empty. So was the table, except for Viola's plate and cup and saucer. There were no servants present. He looked a little less cheerful.
    “Good morning, my lord.” Viola smiled placidly. “And to think that I tiptoed past your room a short while ago, believing that you must be sleeping on late in the country air. It
is
chilly in here, is it not? I'll have the fire lit and your breakfast brought up. I took the liberty of ordering what I thought you might like.” She got to her feet and pulled on the bell rope beside the sideboard.
    “Thank you.” He took the chair at the head of the table, which she had left vacant for him, as she did not want the morning cluttered with unnecessary wrangling over precedence.
    She still had eggs and sausage and toast on her plate—a far larger breakfast than her usual fare of toast and coffee. She picked up her knife and fork and continued eating, chewing each mouthful with slow relish, even though everything suddenly tasted like straw.
    “The avenue behind the house must be delightful for walking as well as riding,” he said. “The grass is well kept, and the trees on either side are as straight as two lines of soldiers on parade. It is a marvel of nature how they can hide an army of birds, is it not, so that one hears a thousand voices and yet is unable to see a single chorister until one of them decides to fly from one branch to another?”
    “I have always enjoyed strolling there,” she said.
    “One can see for miles around from the top of the hill,” he said. “I would have loved it as a boy. It reminds me a little of the hills at Acton Park, where I grew up. I would have been king of the castle and held it against all comers. Correction.” He grinned, and Viola was unwillingly reminded of the dashing stranger at the fête. “I daresay my brother would have been king and I would have been his loyal henchman. But henchmen have the more exciting life, you know. They fight dragons and assorted other villains, while the king merely sits on his throne looking bored and supercilious and issuing orders and cursing foully.”
    “Gracious! Is that what your brother used to do?” She almost laughed.
    “Elder brothers can be an abomination.”
    But Viola had no wish to hear about his childhood or his family. She did not want to see his boyish grin. She wanted him in a towering rage. She wanted
him
cursing foully. He was rather more frightening this way. Did he know it? Was this behavior deliberate? A cat toying with a mouse? He was drumming his fingertips on the table, though, and glancing at the door, sure signs that he