Page 21 of When a Lady Kisses a Scot
She regarded him for a long moment, silent and assessing. “Many believe you are a rogue—a reputation, by all accounts, you appear to relish. And yet, you were generous with a woman you had no obligation to assist, while refusing to take advantage of what she offered.”
Her knowing gaze seemed a pebble in his shoe. “You may rest assured that my motives had nothing to do with altruism.”
“Duly noted.” She gave a nod, crisp as a well-trained clerk. “Before I make contact with those who have crossed to the other side, Esme demands clarity of your expectations.”
Amazing, how sincerely she’d voiced the words. It must require a Herculean effort to keep her features in such a humorless mask. He’d break that careful control. And he intended to enjoy the experience.
“Ah, Esme,” he said, meeting her gaze. “That wicked girl. I can only imagine the sly flirt she must’ve been while in this realm.”
“My spirit guide does not appreciate being referred to in such a flippant manner.”
“My apologies.” He schooled his features. “I must remember to strive for propriety while in her presence. Damned shame she is not as spirited asmyEsme had been. Quite the vixen.”
“Do make an effort to mind your manners, or Esme will take her leave.” Her mouth thinned, and for a moment, she reminded him of the shrill governess who’d tried in vain to corral him when he’d still been a lad in short pants.
He pushed the notion from his thoughts. The dour-faced harpy could never have compared with Sophie’s sweetly rounded countenance. Despite the way she’d pulled her lush mouth into a stern seam, Sophie was a beauty. Even then, when she regarded him with a too-damned-proper gaze, the prospect of sampling her kiss made his groin hitch.
Bah, he was a fool. Only a blooming chump would entertain the thought of her kiss. Banishing the notion, he pressed on with the task at hand. How bloody absurd, to be conversing about an imaginary entity. “Esme—she is here with us now?”
Sophie nodded. “She has made her presence known. But, she will not speak until the time is right.”
“And when might that be? At this rate, I may be a decrepit old man before I obtain the answers I seek.”
“She wishes to understand you before she offers her assistance. You must admit, you’ve been less than respectful in her presence.” Only the faint glimmer in her eyes betrayed any hint she was engaged in a clever performance. She’d missed her calling treading the boards.
“I shall endeavor to demonstrate the proper respect.” Damn it, but the words sounded mocking, even to himself.
Her eyes narrowed, as if she fully realized they both played a blasted game. What would it take to get her to drop the facade?
“Esme finds you to be a bit of a puzzle,” Sophie said. “You are an academic, a trained scholar.”
“Again, that information is well-known. It hardly merits revelation by a spirit.”
“And yet, you evidently savor a good scandal.”
“So, Esme does keep up with the London rags. Quite enlightening. I’d never imagined a ghost would have a penchant for scurrilous gossip. Tell me, how does she turn the pages? Or is that your role?”
“Esme is aware of much that goes on in our realm.”
“I must say, I feel for the poor chap who’s got to put up with that minx’s cold breath on his neck as she leans over his shoulder to read that rubbish. Esme most likely makes her appearance just as the bloke’s settling in next to a rip-roaring fire, a glass of port in one hand.”
Sophie shook her head. “I assure you she has no need of the papers.”
“Bloody good thing. She might well induce apoplexy in some unsuspecting gent.”
“Indeed,” Sophie said. “Still, you must admit she has a point. You do not conduct yourself like a scholar. And yet, your research has been described as brilliant.”
Had Sophie decided to try another tack? Flattery was an effective tool with most men. Damnable shame he was immune to such rubbish.
“Brilliant? You don’t say. So, Esme keeps up with the latest journals. What are her thoughts on the hunt for Hatshepsut’s tomb?”
Sophie’s delicate brows drew together, but she did not quite frown. “If she has an opinion on the subject, she has not expressed it to me.”
What in blazes was the woman about? He’d brought her to this place, to this chamber—to the blasted bed where his father had expired, no less. He’d thought to fluster her, to jar her into babbling some truth or another about Trask’s enterprise. But she’d deftly turned the tables to keep the focus on him.
She stood by the bed, studying him with those large, doe-brown eyes. Her hand grazed the polished surface of the bedpost. A show of nerves, most likely, rather than an attempt at seduction. Did she sense she’d gotten herself in over her head with this charade?
But blast it all, if she wasn’t as tempting as any siren emerging from the sea. If she thought to take his mind from his purpose in coming here, she hadn’t succeeded, but damned if she hadn’t put his will to the test.
