Page 11 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
Were they indeed? Or were they two more of Lady Chilcombe’s lovers?
A churlish thought. He shook it off.
“I hope that is true as I don’t intend to stay in England any longer than I must. But tell me, how do you know they are men of sterling character?”
Her chin came up. “Results, my lord. And regular audits of the books by, er, a third party.” She stood. “Look at the time. I must go.”
The clock was on a sideboard behind her and she hadn’t swiveled her head an inch.
He followed her to the door and touched her elbow. A shiver went through her, and he felt the trembling move up his own arm. “Where are you off to?”
“I beg your pardon?” She glanced pointedly at his hand, a wash of color creeping up her neck. “I have business to attend to.”
The tight blue muslin of her lower sleeve encased a firm shapely arm. His hand itched to explore more. It was no wonder she had attracted bloody lovers.
“Business more important than my arrival?” he asked, releasing her. “Are you off to order a new bonnet before I have a look at the accounts?”
Her bosom rose and fell as she contemplated the question.
“You will of course want the solicitor to explain the financial arrangements. I shall not be a bother to you, my lord. Financially or otherwise.”
“Otherwise? You won’t try to pester me with social engagements?”
He thought of the pile of invitations. Her input there might be needed. Not that he would follow her advice until he knew just how scandalous her friends were. After all, he had a diplomatic post to pursue.
“Or, my lady, do you mean a bother to my reputation?”
“Your reputation?” Her eyebrows lifted. “You were quite a proper young man when you left England, and I had thought your character fixed. But if you’ve acquired skeletons, my lord, I’m not likely to discover them. If I did, I’d keep them hidden from the wags and gossips. I have years of practice.”
She left, pulling the door closed behind her.
Chapter Four
There’d been a world of bitterness in that last statement. Graeme stared at the closed door a moment, remembering a vision from the past: Blythe in the arms of his cousin, Archie, her bodice pulled down, her breasts exposed to Archie’s fevered groping.
All the old emotions stirred—anger, jealousy, and above all, the desire that had consumed him, despite the fact that he’d been a young lad and she’d been almost five years his senior. He’d opened his mouth and brought attention to the couple, attention that had forced a marriage, when all he’d wanted was to stop Archie. It had been his fault she’d been made to marry.
Calf love, it had been, an infatuation that could never bear fruit—then.
What he’d learned that day had made him cautious with women and careful about expectations. He’d had lovers but never fallen in love. He’d never expected to marry.
An earl without male relatives would have to marry and produce an heir.
What he needed was a simple transaction: a sensible young woman of good reputation who would bear sons, manage the house while he was away for months, perhaps years, and who wouldn’t stand in the way of his career.
He went back to the tray and lifted the cover and set it down again, his appetite gone. The journals and papers on the desk beckoned him to work, but what he wanted was another proper drink.
What he needed was a clear head.
He rang for a fresh pot of tea and went to the desk.
* * *
A half hour later he threw down the logbook he was reviewing and rubbed his eyes.
The columns of numbers marched profitably down each page, but one number revealed payments on a sizeable loan from an unfamiliar bank.
If the estate was doing well, why the loan? There was the work on the townhouse of course, or… had his cousin been a gambler? Morley hadn’t mentioned it. Perhaps Archie’s expenses were related to the ladybirds he’d welcomed into his home. Clothing one countess was expensive, but two or more of the ladies in a harem?
