Page 28 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
She shook the vision, wanton and wrong, away and focused on his face. Ah, the gargoyle had returned, stony and expressionless. No, not expressionless. Pure annoyance vibrated round the edges. Excellent. That doused her rising lust quite handily.
“No, I am not, my lord.” She studied the doorstep they stood on in a small but respectable street. The door they stood before, painted a vibrant blue, was framed by a gothic arch with sharp points soaring high above. “Shall we knock? This is the address, I assume.”
He glared, and he did not knock. He strode right in, yelling, “Andrew, you cur, where are you? Andrew!”
“Stop yelling,” she hissed, following him into the house.
He shrugged. “Best way to get his attention.”
“You have no finesse.”
“I have finesse when it counts.” The words, low and dark, came with the hint of a growl that made her ache between her legs. What moments counted to him? She had to know.Whendid finesse count?
She leapt away from him, burned. Who was this man? A week ago, she’d been able to send him running with a saucy wink and a well-placed innuendo. Now he hauled her onto his lap and made suggestions that froze her like a single drop of air on a winter wind. From liquid to ice in a moment. But an ice with a molten core.
A woman appeared in the hallway, a furrow between her dark brows. “Lord Theodore. Only you would make such an entrance. You’re lucky we are alone at the moment.” Despite her stern expression, the woman had a warm voice, and she stepped to the side to usher them both into a room.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Dart.” Lord Theodore bowed before her, then passed through the door.
Mrs. Dart studied Cordelia. Cordelia studied her, following slowly behind him. Mrs. Dart was as neat and pressed as Cordelia was rumpled, not a fold of her brown muslin gown out of alignment, and not a hair out of place. A considerable accomplishment considering the sheer volume of said hair, the wildness of the tiny corkscrew curls. Somehow the woman had tamed them. Likely just by looking at them in the mirror and telling them to behave. She’d likely banish the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks to permanent exile with a quirk of her brow if possible. She seemed the sort, tidy and organized in a way Cordelia deeply admired but could not quite emulate.
Cordelia bobbed a curtsy, then rushed into the room.
Mrs. Dart followed at a more sedate pace and circled a large desk in front of a curtained window, coming to a stop next to the chair. A man sat there, and if he hadn’t been sitting, if he’d been standing like Lord Theodore on the other side of the desk, they’d have seemed mirror images. Same hair, though his eyes were blue, same broad shoulders and serious mouth. But the other man dressed better, as sharply as Mrs. Dart in fact. And his dark hair tended more toward sandy brown than black.
“Do you visit your tailor each week or each month?” Cordelia asked.
From behind the desk, Lord Andrew’s gaze slid, slow yet steady, from his brother to Cordelia. “What is that you’ve brought with you?” He flicked his fingers in Cordelia’s direction.
She bristled, felt like a cat, and wanted to claw him. Did she… prefer the gargoyle to this other man? Surely not. But Lord Andrew was, impossible to believe, colder than Lord Theodore—Theo. Her Bromley brother at least had a simmering passion just beneath his stony exterior. This Bromley brother had… nothing. Pure ice, he was, and she shivered.
“That,” Lord Theodore said without even a glance in her direction, “is Lady Cordelia Trent.”
“Ah.” Lord Andrew thrummed his fingers on the top of the desk. “The last of the leeches.”
Her mouth dropped open. “I amnota leech.” At least she was trying her best not to be. She tapped Lord Theodore, Theo, on the shoulder twice in quick succession. Hard. “And I’ma woman, not athat.”
Mrs. Dart made a gurgling sound she quickly dominated before beaming at Cordelia. As if she’d said just the right thing to please her.
Lord Theodore acted as if she’d never spoken, as if her finger digging into his shoulder had been nothing but the brush of a fly. “Besides, what’s the matter if I have a woman with me? You have a woman, too.” He gestured, open palmed, toward the woman in question.
Mrs. Dart inspected her fingernails as if she refused to honor such a conversation with her attention.
Lord Andrew scowled, glanced over his shoulder? “Oh. Her? That’s not a woman. That’s my secretary.” He grunted. “And the agency’s face. You know that.”
Mrs. Dart’s expression, so indicative of happiness moments before, turned wild for a brief instant during which Cordelia feared Lord Andrew would soon be bludgeoned with a nearby vase. Thankfully, her expression quickly descended into scorn. She settled her scowl on her employer.
“The agency’s face?” Cordelia asked Mrs. Dart.
“Everyone thinks I run it. He actually does. Needless to say, you should not reveal the truth to anyone outside of this room.”
Cordelia pulled herself up tall. “Certainly not.”
Lord Andrew stood and rounded the desk, ignoring everyone but his brother, his arms wide and welcoming. “What brings you to Manchester, barging about like a bull?”
The brothers clapped one another on the back, rare and breathtaking smiles breaking across their faces. Unfair. They should warn a woman before doing that.
“I’ve business nearby,” Lord Theodore said.
