Page 62 of The Viscount's Seduction
Blotches of anger colored her cheeks and her hands fisted.
“’Twas that the servants would’ve had to testify, and after the man was exonerated, they’d have been put out without references, or worse, perhaps falsely accused of some crime.” She pounded her fist into her palm. “My father gave into the drink, but he was a worthy man. This man is not worthy.”
If the new earl were here, he’d toss him straight out the window. He looked around the room and could not spot her night clothing. He went into the dressing room, retrieved his dressing gown, and helped her into it. The dark satin swallowed her like the dark trappings of a funeral byre.
An appropriate thought for the way this evening had progressed.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice softer.
He raked his hands through her hair, pulling out combs and scattering pins. “Tell me the new earl’s name.”
“Glenmorrow.”
“No. Who was he before he became Glenmorrow?” The coil of hair cascaded over the dark fabric like a river of gold, making his insides clench.
God, she was lovely.
“Sterling Hollister.”
“Where is he now?”
She turned to him, face blotched with pink, and his heart all but stopped and started up again, bashing against his ribs. Damn, damn Sterling Hollister, new Earl of Glenmorrow.
“I don’t know. I know he was once a soldier but he sold off his commission. He’ll be wanting to make his title official. He’ll be wanting to enter the Lords.”
If he’d been in the army, Hackwell or Bink might know of him.
But he wouldn’t be entering the Lords unless he was one of the Irish elected peers, and he’d doubt if an upstart new heir would be even considered. Unless…
“Did your father serve in the House of Lords?”
“No.”
“Come,” he escorted her over to the table. “You must eat.”
“I couldn’t.” But she came and let herself be seated. He filled a plate for her.
The red rage had drained from her and she looked ashen.
“I’ve not studied the law,” he said, “but I know enough of it. And for what I don’t know, I can employ the very best of those who do. Eat, my dear.”
She frowned at him and picked up her knife and fork.
“You’re looking for your brother to displace this villain.”
She stopped her fork midway to her mouth, put it down, and stared at him, biting her lower lip.
“It’s a good plan.” He speared a piece of ham and chewed. “Eat Sirena. I’ve heard the French say that revenge is best as a cold meal like this, or some such.”
She stared at him, that little frown creasing her brow. He swallowed and took a drink of wine. “Pardon, my lady. One does not speak with one’s mouth full. There’s also the good Bard’s line: ‘Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep.’”
She smiled. “‘Caesar’s spirit, ranging for revenge, with Ate by his side come hot from hell, shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice, cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.’”
“You know your Shakespeare.”
She lifted a shoulder. “A bit. ’Twas my mother’s doing.”
“Excellent. We’ll have no more tears tonight.”
