Page 31 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
Yet he hated his soul anyway and peered out the window, feeling darker than a storm cloud. “What in blazes is that?”
“A moat,” she offered.
“Not that. Thehouse.”
“Well, you’ve rather answered your own question there, haven’t you.” She tried to suppress her grin. The corners of her lips bounced up, eager to escape.
“Yes, it’s a house, but good God, what kind of house?”
“Old. And surrounded by a moat.”
The house likely dated to the sixteenth century or older and had been built in the timber-frame construction of that time period, the wood used to make a dizzying array of patterns that made the house seem like something out of a fairy story. The first floor extended wider than the ground floor, and it … leaned, looking rather like a cake about to topple.
“A witch lives there,” Theo grumbled. “It’s absurd.”
“Absurdly charming.”
“You just like moats.”
“And who doesn’t? That’s what I’d like to know.” Her grin escaped, made a wild landscape of joy out of her face, and the coach crossed a narrow rock bridge to cross the small body of water and entered an empty courtyard.
“Are you prepared for this?” he asked as her ease disappeared, and she lifted her hand to chew on her thumbnail, a nervous gesture he had the strange compulsion to soothe.
She dropped her hand heavy to her lap with an almost determined exhale. “I am.”
“As soon as we disembark, we—”
“I know. The playacting begins.”
“If I do anything that goes too far, tell me. I won’t… I do not wish to hurt you.”
She gave him a smile, a curious little quirk of a thing that made his stomach flip over. “I know, you soft thing, you. And never worry”—she winked—“I’ll let you know if you do something I cannot abide. Do you know, you’re quite easy to imagine in armor, sitting atop a horse. Have you ever tried? You’d make an impressive sight.”
She mocked him. But before Theo could do a damn thing about it, a footman opened the door and held his hand out to help Cordelia down.
She reached for it, but Theo reached her first, taking her hand for his own and holding it tight.
“Apologies,” Theo grumbled at the footman, lifting her hand to his lips. “No one touches my muse but me.” He kissed her knuckles. Covered by thin cotton gloves, the warmth of her skin still bled through, and her scent, too, tickled his nose.
Her hand fisted for a moment before loosening. She did not shake him away. “My apologies as well, Mr.…”
“Mr. Trembly,” the footman said.
“Mr. Trembly. Lord Theo can be a bit of a bear when it comes to me.” She patted his arm, squeezed it.
And Theo tried to respond with some pleasant expression, but he found the muscles rusty. Thank God he had no mirror to view the spectacle that must be his tortured face.
Cordelia saw, though. Her eyes widened, and she coughed. To cover a laugh?
Theo addressed the footman. “I’m Lord Theodore Bromley, and this is Lady Cordelia, my… wife.”
The footman snorted and spun toward the house. “They all say that. Follow me, please. At least you didn’t try to claim her as your sister. One fellow did that this morning. Then kissed the woman right on the lips. Not even trying, is he?” The footman, long strides eating the distance across the entry hall, snorted again. Wood paneling soared upward on all sides, and windowless walls gathered shadows around them.
“It’s rather dark,” Cordelia whispered, her body shifting closer to his.
He squeezed her hand, still holding it, using it to wrap their arms together as if they were accustomed to closeness with one another. He touched her, held her, to protect her. Nothing else. His body, relishing every damn minute of the closeness, ignored good sense and pulled her nearer.
Mr. Trembly glanced at them without breaking stride. “Lord Pentshire is in the withdrawing room. This way.”
