eyes widened. An appealing blush rose in her cheeks as she glanced around them, as if searching for something. An exit, perhaps.
“You may inquire with Mr. Cox about the services of a lady’s maid.”
That brought her gaze quickly back to him, but this time, instead of bewilderment, her gaze was cross. She folded her arms across her body and tilted her head to one side, and Jeffrey could not help but admire her neck. “I am curious—are you this aloof and commanding with everyone you know, or have you adopted this demeanor entirely for my benefit? For if you mean to punish me, you need not bother. I am punishing myself every moment of every day.”
Her bit of cheek surprised him. He wasn’t punishing her. He was more at fault than she.
“I understand you are angry. I would be, were I in your shoes. I have apologized—”
“There is no need to apologize again,” he said brusquely.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Good, because I didn’t intend to apologize again. After all, there are only so many ways one might beg for forgiveness, and I believe I’ve exhausted them all. But I rather think that here we are, my lord, and we may as well determine how we are to endure it.”
Jeffrey was caught completely off guard. He lived a solitary life—most people deferred to him. They certainly did not challenge him. “I beg your pardon, madam, if I’ve not been suitably garrulous for you. I find idle chatter tedious and I am not very good at it.”
“Why yes, you have demonstrated that very well, my lord. But I don’t think of it as idle chatter. I was attempting to know you.”
That declaration made him feel uncomfortably exposed. He wondered what she would think if she knew she’d trapped herself into a marriage with a madman. “Frankly, I don’t care to be known,” he said truthfully. “Good night.”
He turned away from her and walked to the door. But as he reached it, he heard her say something quite low. He paused at the door and looked back. “Pardon?”
“I said, good night, my lord,” she said with mock cheer. She looked lovely standing there, her color high, her eyes blazing with ire. The images began to come to him—images of those eyes blazing with passion—
He turned away and walked into the corridor. He turned left. He walked sixteen steps to the turn into the main corridor, then thirty-two steps to the foyer, which required him to shorten his stride. In the foyer, he began the count again, going up the steps.
It was the only thing that would banish the image of his wife caressing her naked body while he watched.
GRACE LOCKED THE door of her room. She stood there, her arms akimbo, studying it. She debated pulling a chair before it to make doubly sure he couldn’t enter. She would no more allow that wretched man to touch her than she would eat her shoe.
Actually, under the right circumstances, she might be persuaded to eat her shoe.
She studied the door, imagined him breaking it down, demanding entry. He said he would not come to her...but when he said it, he was looking at her so intently, his gaze so ravenous, that Grace didn’t believe him. She thought it a trick.
No, no, she was being ridiculous. He said he would not come to her. And if that man said something, it was painfully true. “I find idle chatter tedious,” she mimicked him under her breath. “Frankly, I do not wish to be known.”
Grace rolled her eyes. What a miserable figure! And she, a woman who was accustomed to fawning men and high society, was married to him. “Oh!” she said to the ceiling, and gripped her hands in frustration.
Yes, the lock was sufficient. And honestly, were he to come through the door now, she might brain him with the fire poker. Grace was never one to contemplate violence, but she had already contemplated it several times today, so exasperated was she with her situation. “Come through my door, sir, and see what awaits,” she muttered.
She backed away from the door, expecting to see the handle turn at any moment, and bumped up against the bed. She sat, her hands on either side of her knees, her breath a little uneven. What was the matter with him? He was a man with a broad reputation for being aloof, for being more concerned about his place in society and propriety than his own family. But his flaws seemed more to her than that. There was something very different about him than anyone she’d ever known, the signs of a private struggle, as if he was making a concerted effort to isolate himself from everyone around him. Not only would he scarcely utter a word to her, it seemed to take quite a lot for him to look her in the eye.
And yet, when he did look her in the eye, his gaze was so intent, so hungry, that she couldn’t suppress the small shock of fear that sliced through her even now.
“Now you’re imagining things,” she muttered wearily. He might be a strangely aloof man, but he was an earl, a gentleman. He had said he would not come to her tonight and he would keep his word. Grace sighed with the exhaustion of prolonged agitation and stood up. She’d forced a marriage with the man and she could not avoid the marriage bed, no matter how much she might like to. Part of her was repulsed by it, by him, by his cold manner. But another part of her felt a bit of heat sluice through her every time she thought of their fateful encounter.
You were there to meet Amherst. You mistook me for him.
How did he know what she’d done? And if he knew, why did he kiss her so thoroughly that night?
Grace mulled that over as she reached behind her to unbutton her gown but was startled almost out of her wits by a knock at the door. She gasped and hopped to her feet, running to the hearth to grab the fire poker. “Who’s there!”
“Hattie Crump, mu’um. I’ve been sent by Mrs. Garland to attend you.”
Grace’s relief swept out of her, making her feel suddenly limp. She drew a breath to find her composure, put aside the fire poker and walked to the door. She opened it to a small woman with dark red hair pinned tightly at her nape. She was wearing a severe dark blue gown with a prim white collar that Grace had seen on the other female servants today. She had an unfortunate pair of dark hollows beneath her eyes, as if she’d not slept in years.
Hattie Crump curtsied. “Mrs. Garland said I should help you until you’ve hired a lady’s maid.”
Grace’s initial instinct was to send her away, but she was so grateful for company of any sort that was not that awful man, she pulled the woman in. “Thank you.”
“How may I help?”
“Ah...” Grace glanced around the room. “My trunk. If you would put away my things?”
“Aye,” Hattie said, and started briskly for the dressing room.
Grace followed her. She stood in the doorway nervously fidgeting with the cuff of her sleeve as Hattie began to remove her gowns and underthings from the trunk, opening the doors to the armoire and neatly stacking them inside.
“Have you been long at Blackwood Hall?” Grace asked.
“Aye, mu’um, more or less all
