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Authors: Shelley Munro
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something?”
She hoped he wasn’t going to make her get rid of the kitten after all. His forbidding expression indicated something dire. Then a thought occurred, and she gasped out loud. He hadn’t come to bed her. Had he?
“I came to…” His mouth snapped shut and his scar seemed to glow, making him look like a ghostly apparition from one of Mary’s tales.
“Y-yes?” Her hands flexed as she glanced at him. That one glimpse was all she needed. Apprehension battled with disappointment as she accepted the truth of the matter. His expression was that of a man acting against his will. She didn’t need to think overly hard on the matter. She wanted an agreeable husband, one who wanted children as much as she did.
Lucien concentrated on the woman while inside he railed at his stupidity. He shouldn’t have come, but then he seemed to make one mistake after the other with the English mouse.
He inhaled deeply, trying to prod sense into his dull brain. Another mistake. The room smelled of her, of flowers and greenery—the outdoors.
A cheerful fire burned in the grate behind her, making the pale blond hair glow like a full moon hanging in a velvet sky. Jerking his gaze from the sight, he tried to rid his mind of the unwanted image. He cleared his throat in preparation to tell her why he’d sought her company.
A soft shuffle to his right made him realize the maid was witness to his stupidity.
“Johnson, the head groom, is gifted in treating animals. Take the beast to him.” Although he sounded abrupt, he couldn’t stop the anger. Each time he looked at the woman, fury built and grew, writhing inside him like a raging beast, yet the sane part of him acknowledged he owed a duty to her. Good or bad, she was now his wife. He tried to remind himself she wasn’t responsible for Francesca’s death, but the resentment remained. The English mouse was alive.
He glanced about the room, taking in the feminine fripperies—a hairbrush inlaid with mother of pearl, a straw hat, a nightgown strewn across the bed, colorful ribbons and satin bows that reminded him of Francesca and her delight of beautiful things. Savagely, he locked the painful memories away.
“Well?” he demanded. “Do you wish me to summon a footman?”
“I don’t need help.” Her chin tilted upward.
Lucien nodded curtly and stalked to the door, in a hurry to leave the chamber and the woman’s presence. “As you will. I must go. Lady Augusta will meet with you this afternoon in the Great Hall. Lady Radford and her daughter, Lady Sophia, are visiting.”
“Thank you for telling me,” she said.
Lucien paused with his hand on the door latch, every sense suddenly alert. He turned, his gaze sweeping the room, finally coming to rest on the woman. She arched one blond brow in a quizzical manner.
He frowned. For once, his instincts were flawed. He shrugged off his sense of unease and strode from the woman’s presence. The only element of danger in the chamber was the woman.
Chapter Five
“Three weeks.” Lucien forced his arms into his shirt and yanked the black fabric over his shoulders, fastening the buttons with jerky fingers. “Why does it seem so much longer?”
And why had he taken to talking to himself? It was her, his new viscountess. Their nuptials twenty-two days ago had messed with his plans. Finding Francesca’s murderer remained his top priority, not puzzling out his strange reaction to the English mouse.
He finger-combed his hair, dragging the long strands off his face to tie back. A folded scrap of paper sitting on the floor inside his chamber door grabbed his attention. Frowning, he completed his queue before stooping to retrieve the note.
Stay out of smuggler business unless you wish to face the consequences.
Fury struck him as he read the words, and he crumpled the paper, tossing it aside in disgust. Either the smugglers were educated or they’d paid someone to write the note for them. A cynical laugh escaped him. Nothing in
She hoped he wasn’t going to make her get rid of the kitten after all. His forbidding expression indicated something dire. Then a thought occurred, and she gasped out loud. He hadn’t come to bed her. Had he?
“I came to…” His mouth snapped shut and his scar seemed to glow, making him look like a ghostly apparition from one of Mary’s tales.
“Y-yes?” Her hands flexed as she glanced at him. That one glimpse was all she needed. Apprehension battled with disappointment as she accepted the truth of the matter. His expression was that of a man acting against his will. She didn’t need to think overly hard on the matter. She wanted an agreeable husband, one who wanted children as much as she did.
Lucien concentrated on the woman while inside he railed at his stupidity. He shouldn’t have come, but then he seemed to make one mistake after the other with the English mouse.
He inhaled deeply, trying to prod sense into his dull brain. Another mistake. The room smelled of her, of flowers and greenery—the outdoors.
A cheerful fire burned in the grate behind her, making the pale blond hair glow like a full moon hanging in a velvet sky. Jerking his gaze from the sight, he tried to rid his mind of the unwanted image. He cleared his throat in preparation to tell her why he’d sought her company.
A soft shuffle to his right made him realize the maid was witness to his stupidity.
“Johnson, the head groom, is gifted in treating animals. Take the beast to him.” Although he sounded abrupt, he couldn’t stop the anger. Each time he looked at the woman, fury built and grew, writhing inside him like a raging beast, yet the sane part of him acknowledged he owed a duty to her. Good or bad, she was now his wife. He tried to remind himself she wasn’t responsible for Francesca’s death, but the resentment remained. The English mouse was alive.
He glanced about the room, taking in the feminine fripperies—a hairbrush inlaid with mother of pearl, a straw hat, a nightgown strewn across the bed, colorful ribbons and satin bows that reminded him of Francesca and her delight of beautiful things. Savagely, he locked the painful memories away.
“Well?” he demanded. “Do you wish me to summon a footman?”
“I don’t need help.” Her chin tilted upward.
Lucien nodded curtly and stalked to the door, in a hurry to leave the chamber and the woman’s presence. “As you will. I must go. Lady Augusta will meet with you this afternoon in the Great Hall. Lady Radford and her daughter, Lady Sophia, are visiting.”
“Thank you for telling me,” she said.
Lucien paused with his hand on the door latch, every sense suddenly alert. He turned, his gaze sweeping the room, finally coming to rest on the woman. She arched one blond brow in a quizzical manner.
He frowned. For once, his instincts were flawed. He shrugged off his sense of unease and strode from the woman’s presence. The only element of danger in the chamber was the woman.
Chapter Five
“Three weeks.” Lucien forced his arms into his shirt and yanked the black fabric over his shoulders, fastening the buttons with jerky fingers. “Why does it seem so much longer?”
And why had he taken to talking to himself? It was her, his new viscountess. Their nuptials twenty-two days ago had messed with his plans. Finding Francesca’s murderer remained his top priority, not puzzling out his strange reaction to the English mouse.
He finger-combed his hair, dragging the long strands off his face to tie back. A folded scrap of paper sitting on the floor inside his chamber door grabbed his attention. Frowning, he completed his queue before stooping to retrieve the note.
Stay out of smuggler business unless you wish to face the consequences.
Fury struck him as he read the words, and he crumpled the paper, tossing it aside in disgust. Either the smugglers were educated or they’d paid someone to write the note for them. A cynical laugh escaped him. Nothing in
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