Page 98 of Ironvine

“How the hell did you get in here?” He plucked at the candelabra and held it aloft, the light suddenly gleaming between them, revealing his sharp features.

Her mouth dried. “I was looking at the books on the shelves., and I…I…”

“Yes?”

“I found three volumes that were turned backward, there was a delightful painting on the fore-edge.”

“You saw the handle.” His tone was oddly stern.

“I saw the handle, yes.” She swallowed hard. She should have ignored the damned handle. She should have asked him first.

Charles placed the candelabra on the low table in the centre of the room. “Luckily I took the tea service from Jerrold and brought it to the library myself.”

“Ah yes, tea…” Her stomach knotted over and over. “What is this room exactly?”

“This was my father’s private chamber. Here he entertained himself with mistresses, whores, a servant or two.”

“The paintings are all quite good.”

He let out a sardonic laugh. “Painted by the best.” He slapped his hand against the wall at his side. “Here there’s a passageway to exit the house for quick getaways if one’s spouse were to interrupt while you were rutting a servant or a mutual friend. Or perhaps the spouse of the mutual friend might come calling, looking for his wife, and she could then easily escape and return to her own home undetected.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Do you?” His eyes narrowed at her, his jaw tense.

“I think you’ve witnessed a great many things in this house, Charles.”

He averted his gaze. “Here is proof for you that all the horrid things people say about us Montclares are true. Profligates, rakes. Debauchery, decadence.” His gaze roved over her. “This is my family.” He cradled the side of her face with his cool hand, and her breathing deepened. “Your brother was right. By marrying me, you’ve been polluted.”

“Have you used this room?”

“You want to know?”

“Yes, I want to know.”

“Never. Had I done, I would have been whipped.”

“But you wanted to?”

“I did.” Pressing his lips together, he gestured at her. “Why are you dressed like this? Are those my old clothes?”

She shifted her weight under his critical scrutiny. “Yes, yes they are. I asked your man if there were any of your old clothes I might use to walk to the ruins today. With this morning’s rains, there was a lot of mud and…”

“This is rather shocking, Countess.”

“Is it?”

He tugged sharply on her loosely tied neck cravat, swiping it out of the way to reveal her throat. His thumbs brushed down the delicate skin of her neck, and she let out a cry. “That’s better.”

“Hmm.”

“You like the paintings on the wall? Perhaps you’d like to sketch them?”

“Yes, I would.”

His eyes flared. “Would you?”

“They’re very good.”

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