Page 17 of Felicity Cabot Sells Her Soul
Her eyes narrowed to slits in a glare that would have felled a lesser man at twenty paces. “I mean to say,” she hissed, “that you will never see a penny of profit from the school. There will be no return on your investment.”
Ah. She’d unknowingly made a bad bargain, and now she wanted to hand him the same, however she had to do it. “Then you’ve misunderstood,” he said. “I don’t care if the school is profitable. The school is not the investment.Youare the investment. If it pleases you to turn your school into the most extravagant institution outside of London, then you have my leave to do so. I can bear the expense of it.”
A high, tinny laugh, rife with disappointed hopes and the undeniable shrillness of resentment. “I truly will beggar you.”
“My money makes money,” Ian said. “I work because I’d be bored out of my damned mind if I did not, not because I require the funds.” Although if she truly did intend to make good on that threat, perhaps he’d be wise to continue on as he had. As a footman swept her largely-untouched salad away and replaced it with a fresh plate, he said, “You missed the lamb evening last, but my cook does exemplary beef as well.”
Her cheeks hollowed as she considered her plate, utensils clutched in her fists. “What time is it?” she inquired icily.
Ian glanced down at his pocket watch. “You owe me forty-seven minutes still.”
An exasperated sigh drifted across her lips, but she slumped back in her chair and began to carve off dainty bites of beef. Plotting as she did, no doubt, how she might next attempt to get the better of him.
Ian let several minutes tick by in silence, resolved to let her enjoy her meal, even if she was unlikely to admit to it. Neither of them were particularly accustomed to lingering over meals as some were wont to do; he knew Felicity was accustomed to taking meals with the students at her school, while he had never seen much of a point in confining himself to a table set for one for hours on end.
When she at last laid down hersilverware, he said, “Perhaps you would like a tour of the house.”
“I would not.” Simple, crisp—excoriating. Had he been foolish enough to expect anything better, he might have been devastated.
“Allow me to rephrase,” he said as he slipped his watch back into his pocket and rose to his feet. “I am going to walk the house, and you still owe me thirty-two minutes.”
Her lips pursed into the beginnings of a pout. “Is there to be no dessert?”
“There might be,” he said as he headed for the door, “if you could be trusted not to dally over it for the remainder of my time.”
Felicity drew in a sharp breath, and the legs of her chair scraped across the floor as she pushed it back. “You,” she said, in all incredulity, “don’t trustme.”
“I really do not,” Ian said, adjusting the cuffs off his sleeves as he paused by the door. “Don’t take it personally. It’s just that I’m well aware that you would gleefully skewer me if you thought you could get away with it.” His gaze flicked toward the knife she had left laying upon her plate. “I wouldn’t advise it.”
Her hands flexed at her sides, the set of her shoulders suggesting he ought to guard his tongue more wisely than he had. “I’m rarely given to taking advice from the enemy.”
Ian rolled his eyes. “I’m not your enemy,” he said, “even if you would cast me in that role. But the house is rather large, and the staff have duties to which to attend. They can’t be expected to come find you whenever you’ve gotten turned around simply because you refuse to learn the layout. Come along, then—thirty minutes, and you’ll be relieved of my company for the evening.”
And as it turned out, that had done the trick. She followed, rather insolently in his opinion, some ten steps behind as he turned down a hall leading toward the rear of the house, pausing only to receive a lamp offered by a footman to light their way.
“The public rooms are all on the ground floor,” he said. “There’s the drawing room to your right, and the library just there.”
“You have a library?” At last, a note of interest in her voice.
“Of course I have got a library. A house this size has got to have a library.” One day—perhaps years into the future, given her present antipathy toward him—he would tell her what an effort it had been to find the perfect house. That he hadn’t purchased it for himself, but for her. Forthem.
But at this moment it just one more thing she wouldn’t want to hear. She might not want to like this house—because he came with it—but she’d lost a bit of that sullen resistance which had put a plod into her steps. Those green, green eyes lingered now over the details she had once steadfastly ignored, if not with true interest, then at least with speculation. That charming little furrow was once more knit between her brows, as if some tiny hint of suspicion had tugged at the edges of her mind.
“The portrait gallery,” he said as he turned once more. “Through here.”
A derisive sniff as she glanced about at the bare walls. “It’s empty.”
“I haven’t got any portraits.”Yet. “Although if you’d like to sit for one…”
“I wouldn’t.”
Ah, well. It had been worth a try. He had no noble ancestors who might have graced the walls and no particular eye for art himself. So the walls would stay bare, then, unless Felicity cared to fill them. “The private rooms are upstairs,” he said as he continued down the gallery. “If you have need of an office, there are vacant rooms suitable. Butler can help find you one to your liking.”
“My office is at the school.”
Contrary to the damned last. Ian crammed his hand into his pocket, withdrew his watch once more. Twenty-three minutes left. Not as much time as he would have liked—but then, it never would have been. “Last stop for the evening,” he said. “We’ll get to the rest another time.”
He cast open the doors at the rear of the gallery, and a brisk breeze slipped in from the outdoors. Behind him, he heard her brief inhale at the sudden shock of cold.
