Read Online The Spurned Viscountess by Shelley Munro - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Shelley Munro
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the note or words gave him a lead. Not that it mattered. They might think they could warn him off, but it wouldn’t work. He jammed his feet in his boots and left his room.
Lucien stomped through the Great Hall, disturbing a pair of maids with his mumbling. They paused in their polishing and bobbed a curtsey. One turned her face so she didn’t have to confront his scar while the other stared intently at his groin before closing her right eye in a saucy wink. Lucien averted his gaze. The brazen, dark-haired maid had offered to warm his bed several times, which didn’t make sense given the way she never actually looked at his face. Each time, he’d sent her on her way, but she continued to watch him, making him feel like a particularly tasty slice of tart. He’d have to do something about her soon, but not today.
“Good day.” The giggles that followed him down the hall made him scowl harder. Living in the castle meant there were no secrets—all would know of the state of affairs between him and the English mouse. No doubt, they discussed the matter in depth while going about their duties. Lucien cursed inwardly.
He continued down the brightly lit passage to the steward’s office. At first, he’d found the meetings with the steward tedious, an unavoidable aspect of his presence. However, he’d come to enjoy the hours of honest toil. Rolling up his sleeves and working with his hands until he was too tired to think had filled the lonely hours. And the time spent out on the estate had proved helpful in his search for Hawk. Gossip picked up from the locals continued to help, yet they ignored direct questions on the subject.
Lucien’s jaw clenched. The man was a powerful force in the area, but he was closing in; the anonymous note in his chamber warning him off confirmed the instinct.
Lucien thumped on the closed door of the office and entered without waiting. A fire burned in the study hearth, heating the room to an unbearable temperature. The steward sat behind his desk, a somber and earnest expression on his face, his quill scratching as he made notations in the estate ledgers.
He looked up at Lucien’s arrival. “Viscount Hastings.”
“Maxwell.” Lucien inclined his head and sank into a wooden chair near him. “What needs doing next?”
Maxwell peered over the top of his spectacles. “Several cottages require repairs. I know it’s late in the season, but I have been so busy. There’s been no one to supervise the work. But surely you don’t intend to start the job now?” A tide of ruddy color spread from the man’s cheeks and upward toward his horsehair wig. He shuffled on his seat, avoiding Lucien’s gaze before blurting, “You are still newly wed, in your honeymoon period. Surely you don’t wish to upset—”
At that moment, St. Clare hobbled into the study to join them. He paused, brows rising. “Hastings, what are you doing here? You should spend time with your charming young wife instead of concerning yourself with estate business. I want to bounce a grandson on my knee before I leave this world. The only way to leave a mark on the world is a man’s get. I shouldn’t have to tell you that, boy.”
Lucien gritted his teeth. He was not Hastings. He was not the boy. He was the owner of a successful estate in Italy, and he intended to return as soon as he discovered Hawk’s identity and exacted his revenge. “The estate needs attention before the cold weather sets in.”
“A few days will make little difference.” St. Clare shot Maxwell an amused glance. “Next week is soon enough to start the chore. I’m sure there are things you’d rather be doing.” A dry chuckle bounced between them, the unspoken sentiment raising Lucien’s hackles. “Things far more pleasurable than toiling on the estate.” St. Clare closed one eye in a salacious wink. “Enjoy the marriage while you can.”
“There’s no one to oversee the work.” Lucien ignored the man’s insinuation that he should
Lucien stomped through the Great Hall, disturbing a pair of maids with his mumbling. They paused in their polishing and bobbed a curtsey. One turned her face so she didn’t have to confront his scar while the other stared intently at his groin before closing her right eye in a saucy wink. Lucien averted his gaze. The brazen, dark-haired maid had offered to warm his bed several times, which didn’t make sense given the way she never actually looked at his face. Each time, he’d sent her on her way, but she continued to watch him, making him feel like a particularly tasty slice of tart. He’d have to do something about her soon, but not today.
“Good day.” The giggles that followed him down the hall made him scowl harder. Living in the castle meant there were no secrets—all would know of the state of affairs between him and the English mouse. No doubt, they discussed the matter in depth while going about their duties. Lucien cursed inwardly.
He continued down the brightly lit passage to the steward’s office. At first, he’d found the meetings with the steward tedious, an unavoidable aspect of his presence. However, he’d come to enjoy the hours of honest toil. Rolling up his sleeves and working with his hands until he was too tired to think had filled the lonely hours. And the time spent out on the estate had proved helpful in his search for Hawk. Gossip picked up from the locals continued to help, yet they ignored direct questions on the subject.
Lucien’s jaw clenched. The man was a powerful force in the area, but he was closing in; the anonymous note in his chamber warning him off confirmed the instinct.
Lucien thumped on the closed door of the office and entered without waiting. A fire burned in the study hearth, heating the room to an unbearable temperature. The steward sat behind his desk, a somber and earnest expression on his face, his quill scratching as he made notations in the estate ledgers.
He looked up at Lucien’s arrival. “Viscount Hastings.”
“Maxwell.” Lucien inclined his head and sank into a wooden chair near him. “What needs doing next?”
Maxwell peered over the top of his spectacles. “Several cottages require repairs. I know it’s late in the season, but I have been so busy. There’s been no one to supervise the work. But surely you don’t intend to start the job now?” A tide of ruddy color spread from the man’s cheeks and upward toward his horsehair wig. He shuffled on his seat, avoiding Lucien’s gaze before blurting, “You are still newly wed, in your honeymoon period. Surely you don’t wish to upset—”
At that moment, St. Clare hobbled into the study to join them. He paused, brows rising. “Hastings, what are you doing here? You should spend time with your charming young wife instead of concerning yourself with estate business. I want to bounce a grandson on my knee before I leave this world. The only way to leave a mark on the world is a man’s get. I shouldn’t have to tell you that, boy.”
Lucien gritted his teeth. He was not Hastings. He was not the boy. He was the owner of a successful estate in Italy, and he intended to return as soon as he discovered Hawk’s identity and exacted his revenge. “The estate needs attention before the cold weather sets in.”
“A few days will make little difference.” St. Clare shot Maxwell an amused glance. “Next week is soon enough to start the chore. I’m sure there are things you’d rather be doing.” A dry chuckle bounced between them, the unspoken sentiment raising Lucien’s hackles. “Things far more pleasurable than toiling on the estate.” St. Clare closed one eye in a salacious wink. “Enjoy the marriage while you can.”
“There’s no one to oversee the work.” Lucien ignored the man’s insinuation that he should
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