Page 4 of The Duke's Christmas Scandal
“Eighteen miles?” Tavi couldn’t conceal her dismay. She’d come twice as far as she meant to, most of it in the wrong direction.
“Worried about your husband?”
“Yes,” she snapped. Fine. He’d caught her in a lie, but she wasn’t ready to admit it. No sane person would wander off into this storm, and if her husband weren’t entirely fictitious, she would undoubtedly be anxious about his safety by now.
“We can go searching for him,” the caretaker suggested with a wink in his voice. As if to mock the very idea, the wind howled hard enough to rattle the windows. Miraculously, the ones in this room weren’t broken.
Yet.
The wind was trying to change that.
“Mr. Dawson will return when he’s ready,” Tavi said loftily. The caretaker took hold of her poker. She did not relinquish it. They engaged in an unspoken tug-of-war, each of them not quite yanking hard enough to be rude, but enough to indicate that the other person should relinquish it. Stubbornly, she refused.
He abruptly let go.
Tavi flew backward, dropping the iron with a clatter. Her legs bumped into the chair she’d pulled to the fire, and she sat down—so hard, she crashed right through the seat.
Her cheeks burned as she flailed there, helpless, with her bottom hanging through the frame and her feet too far off the floor to gain leverage.
The caretaker offered her a hand.
Scowling, Tavi took it. He hauled her out and set her on her feet. There was a tear in her skirt, but it could be repaired. She eyed it with dismay.
“Might as well throw another chair on the fire.” He turned to her. “Now, Mrs. Dawson, start explaining what you’re doing in my castle.”
* * *
Ian
Ian regardedhis unexpected visitor with a mix of interest and irritation.
No woman, nor any man, for that matter, had any business wandering around in a blizzard. “Mrs.” Dawson was clearly alone, despite her patently false story about a husband who’d gone for help. Had she heard of his recent elevation and come here to seduce him?
A man could hope.
Aunt Mags had warned him—before she died, when it looked increasingly likely that the Select Committee for Privileges would choose his claim—that some women were desperate or unscrupulous enough to attempt entrapping a man. Ian knew this. He simply hadn’t considered the possibility in relation to himself until now.
Ian awaited “Mrs.” Dawson’s explanation for being in his home.
“I was lost and took shelter from the storm in the only place for miles around,” she said huffily.
“Don’t you mean,wewere lost?”
“Yes,” she snapped. “My husband and I. Together.”
“You don’t seem very concerned about his wellbeing.”
His feisty visitor glared. Her eyes were a pretty shade of hazel, more green than brown. They reminded him of a forest. Enticing, and full of secrets.
Waxing poetic isn’t like you.He heard this in Aunt Mag’s voice, too.
“He can take care of himself,” she said airily, switching from annoyance to breezy unconcern with suspect ease.
“Did he take his horse?” Ian asked, unfastening the toggles on his coat with thawing hands. “Mrs.” Dawson wasn’t a very good liar, for she flinched visibly. “I ask because I found only one mount in my stable. It’s not a large enough animal to carry two people.”
“Yes.” His visitor scurried to the fire and plucked two lengths of fabric from the mantel, tucking them behind her back. “He took his horse. It’s quite likely my husband found another place to stay for the evening.”
“Are those your stockings?”
