Page 9 of The Confessions of a Lady
Damn! But why would he hide these letters?
Picking up the top letter with a shaking hand, she it flipped over.
Dark-red wax had been pressed into a distinct image easily discernible despite the broken seal.
The head of a crow, the body of a wolf, and the tail of a snake.
The seal of the Devil’s Sons. Pressed onto a letter undoubtably written by the Marquess of Stoneway.
She had him.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Coggins!
With efficiency born of desperation, Penny quickly tucked the letter into her apron. She would need to return for the rest when she had more time and bigger pockets. Replacing the false bottom, she neatly restacked the first set of papers, shut the drawer, and stood, rushing to the fireplace.
Almost dropping the tinder box as she snatched it from the mantle, Penny opened it and pulled out the flint and steel. Gripping the implements tight, she willed her hands to stop shaking.
I am not some stupid ninny! Coggins doesn’t scare me… much.
But when the door opened, it wasn’t Coggins storming in, wondering why she tarried so long in the study when it had been dusted, polished, and set to rights the day before. It wasn’t Coggins determined to give her a set-down or take a switch to her palms for daring to light the fire without his explicit instructions.
It wasn’t Coggins, because it was much, much worse.
‘Why is it every time I enter a room expecting it to be empty, there you are?’ The dark, rumbling voice unsettled Penny in alarming ways. She stiffened her spine; the letter in her pocket which moments before brought her such joy suddenly weighed more than iron.
What if he knows?
But that was impossible. She was being ridiculous. He couldn’t possibly guess at her activities.
Still, what in the bloody hell was the Marquess of Stoneway doing up so early after such an arduous journey? He should be snoring away in his feather-padded bed, dreaming of diamond-crusted courtesans, champagne rivers, crushing the poor beneath his boots like walnut shells, or whatever other tripe rich people envisaged in their nocturnal wonderings. Not invading her moment of triumph with his impossibly potent presence.
Penny had been shocked the night before when the very man she plotted against materialised in the kitchen. A place no marquess belonged. Especially not one as large and dominating as the Marquess of Stoneway. She was equally surprised at how objectively attractive he was.
The image she’d conjured in her mind of what he would look like – a portly, red-cheeked, overly pampered fop – fell drastically short of the thick-limbed, well-muscled, travel-dishevelled man looming larger than life in her domain. But it was more than his distinctive features. It was the darkness he wrapped around himself like a cloak. The danger pulsingfrom him like heat from a fire. His presence was overwhelming. She had been horrified by her reaction to all his smouldering menace.
Because I found him fascinating.
Despite her determination to hate the lord, when she fell into conversation with him, some sparking, fizzing, highly alarming emotion had filled her. She almostenjoyedtheir repartee.
Which was entirely his fault. What kind of a marquess eats his dinner in the kitchen and makes such inappropriate suggestions to his maid? Daring me of all things!
Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, the shock of his early arrival, or the stress of her mission, but instead of maintaining her mask of demure, respectable servant, she’d let it slip and revealed the true Penny beneath. The little scrapper from the Steel.
When Penny reminded herself the marquess was not some dashing highwayman but rather the devil who kept her family trapped behind bars, her remarks had shifted from humorous banter to near insolence. Both reactions were equally inappropriate as they garnered the one thing she didn’t want. His notice. Even if his gaze did make her belly flip and her breath quicken.
Also his fault. Evil men should look the part. Disgusting, oily, ugly. Not… well, not like the Marquess of Stoneway.
His startlingly amber eyes had glowed in the lamplight of the kitchen. She hadn’t been ready to examine the complex blend of emotions he inspired within her that night, and she was no more ready now as they stood in the anaemic sunlight of the study. Never had she hated someone and equally wished to inhale his scent of wild wind and woodsmoke.
Highly unsuitable fragrances for a marquess. He should reek of Bay Rum or lavender. Talcum powder, perhaps.
But instead, he tempted her to fill her lungs with his essence and refuse to exhale. It was all very untoward and spiked a need to protect herself. Which she’d done the night before with her sharp tongue. And which she was doing again now, like some complete idiot.
And I’m enjoying it.
An even more terrifying admission. Penny had very little time in her day for simple pleasures. It was highly unfortunate the one she found was also likely to end her employ. She relished sparring with the marquess. Which was so very wrong. Because she hated him and should find no pleasure in sharp discourse. And also, he was her employer. No world existed where a maid spoke to a marquess as an equal.
