Page 7 of Teach a Rogue New Tricks
“Preposterous.” The sparkle in her eyes belied her words. She found the preposterous intriguing. She possibly foundhimintriguing.
He tried not to let a thrill rush through him, but damn it, pretty, intrigued, and intriguing ladies were one of the greatest thrills life had to offer.
He snuck a step closer to her. “And who are you?” He knew, of course, but not the specifics.
“You already know. You’ve addressed me asMiss Cavendishtwice already.” Her head tilted slightly to one side. “How did you know?”
He nodded toward the window. “A pretty dark-haired miss up here when one is missing down there. A good guess.” He sighed again. His sighs had become endemic. He should see a doctor to ensure he did not suffer some obscure lung plague. Perhaps reforming required extreme and voluble exhalations. “I am your aunt and uncle’s houseguest. I knew the Cavendish family was scheduled to visit today.”
“Hardly a villainous means of knowing my identity.”
He sniffed. “Do you take me for an amateur?”
“I take you for nothing. I know nothing about you.”
“And you won’t. You should not have returned. Why did you return?”
“I should not have, and I will not stay where I’m not wanted.” She curtsied. “Have a lovely afternoon, Mr. Villain.” She disappeared into the hallway.
The air in the room pressed in around Cass. He’d felt lonely before, but now, now the solitude crushed him. There she went, his taste of goodness and family and belonging, and he’d cast it—her—away like a ruined boot. That tendril of reluctance bloomed into a thorned bloody rose, piercing.
He rushed after her into the hallway.
She strode toward the stairs with no hesitation in her steps.
“Wait!” he called, grasping the doorframe to keep from throwing himself at her bodily.
She swung around, less than a step from the stairs, her head slightly tilted to the side. With curiosity or annoyance?
He swallowed his panic and cleared his throat. He felt the blood leave his fingers where they gripped the warm wood of the wall. “Don’t go. Not yet.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening them once more. “Please. I don’t get to speak to many people these days, other than your aunt and uncle. And I’m a bit out of practice. I have never excelled at conversation, but with no practice”—he shrugged—“I’m worse than ever. And I’d like… I’d like…” He pulled his dignity about him, what remained of it. “Stay.”
She lifted a dark brow, unaffected by his command. “Would you like to chat with someone?”
Chat? How childish. But damn it, yes, he did want to chat. “Just a short conversation.” If only to help him face temptation. He’d come to London, after all, to do so. Pretty, eligible misses were not thick on the ground at his estate, and if he could converse with this one without ruining her, he’d know he’d made progress. “I won’t hurt you.”
“Hurt me?” She stepped back, her body rigid, her eyes wary.
“No. I promise. I’ll be on my best behavior.” Finally releasing the doorframe, he clasped his hands behind his back and slumped a bit, trying to make himself seem as innocent and harmless as possible.
Her body loosened, and—miracle!—she reversed her retreat, striding toward him without hesitation. “Yes. A chat.” Her eyes lit with merriment as she re-entered the library. “But you must tell me your real name. And the door stays open.”
He followed her into the room. “Of course. Where shall we sit?”
She picked a chair at random and sat on its edge, her spine straight.
He took the chair next to her, his spine equally stiff. “I am sorry for the unusual introduction. I am… I am Viscount Albee.” He held his breath, waiting for the gasp, the recognition, the fear, the running.
She smiled. “Ah. A pleasure to meet you.” She pressed her lips together below glittering eyes, and he had the impression she withheld a laugh, a chuckle at his expense. “Now, you seem perfectly healthy. Revealing your identify has done no harm to your person, I hope.”
“You haven’t heard of me?”
She studied her boots, tilted her head, made her curls brush her cheek in a way that reminded him of a lover’s finger stroking that fine curve.
He shook his head, shook the itch to caress her away.
“No,” she finally said. “Maybe? Something about it sounds familiar. Should I have?”
He stroked his chin. “Before the exile, I made myself infamous in London for my, um, antics.”
