Page 6 of The Lyon Returns
He paused in the act of sitting to peruse the papers strewn atop the leather blotter on the desk’s surface.
Both brows went up this time and he gestured to his chair. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Head held high, she marched to the armchair facing the desk. She sat, taking her time arranging the skirts of her navy muslin day dress, aware his eyes followed her the whole while.
Finally, he gave a snort and dropped into his chair. He pushed asnifter toward her before drawing the other to his lips for a long sip. “Ah,” he breathed, closing his eyes briefly as if savoring the liquor. “Now, then. Your explanation, Mrs…?”
“Barnes.”
His long fingers fanned the pages of the contract before him, his green-gold gaze flicking over the document.
She resisted the urge to snatch it up. What did it matter if he read the unsigned agreement? It may as well be fodder for the grate at this point.
“I’m happy to answer all of your questions pertaining to this…er…misunderstanding. I must warn you, however. It’s a rather long story.”
“Be that as it may, Mrs. Barnes.” He paused, his expression turning contemplative. “Are you married?” His tone implied nothing more than idle curiosity.
“Widowed. Like you.”
His gaze snapped to meet hers.
Something akin to an electric shock went through her.
Again, she reflected on Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s inadequate depiction of Devereux’s eyes.Hazel, she’d said. Gwen understood that as a combination of green and brown, perhaps flecked with gold. Indeed, all those colors did coexist in the intense stare boring into hers. But somehow, the mélange of colors were too riotous to be called simplyhazel. A thin brown strip encircled a vibrant explosion of green and gold, the color growing lighter nearer his pupils where it formed a distinct golden ring.
They brought to mind a sunrise over the ocean, or a plot of sunflowers growing amidst a field of green-green grass.
She gave herself a mental shake. Devereux wanted an explanation. He deserved one. She folded her hands in her lap and fixed her gaze on the gold filigree scrollwork adorning the desk’s leather topper.
“I am from a small village in Northumberland where I work—worked—as an editor for the last several years for a prestigious London publishing house under my father. He was an esteemed and highly-sought-after editor.”
“Was?”
She nodded. “He died recently.”
“I see.”
No social platitudes. No casual sentiment of sympathy.
“At his passing, I made the decision to relocate to London. Many of my friends reside here. We are members of a social club called the Ladies’ Literary Society of London.”
“How nice for you,” he clipped out, clearly losing patience.
She gave him a quelling look.
He did not appear the least chagrined.
She went on, truncating her explanation for simplicity’s sake. “Before arriving, I terminated my employment and made an offer on a small but well-established publishing house, recently available for purchase.”
“Yes, yes.” He waved his hand in a gesture that saidget on with it. “What has any of this to do with our supposed marriage?”
“If you’ll allow me to finish, you will soon see how this situation came about,” she replied in a deliberately arch tone.
“Terribly sorry.”
She slanted him a disapproving glance.Really.The man relied entirely too much on sarcasm.
“Though I have the means—”
