bedchamber.
He opened the door. A fire burned on the hearth. A figure was curled up in the comfortable wing chair.
A female figure. But all the females were safely off the premises, or so he had believed. Quin realized he hadn’t actually seen Liliane depart.
She had been all conciliation since they struck their bargain. Quin didn’t trust her the merest fraction of an inch.
The figure stirred, sat up. Firelight gleamed in Kate’s dark hair.
How had he forgotten for a moment that Kate was in the house? He certainly had not forgotten what happened the last time they were alone together in this room.
She’d accused him of meaning to banish her to the ranks of his forgotten women. It wasn’t true. Quin hadn’t set out to seduce Kate, or if he had it was without ulterior intent, or with no more ulterior intent than usual, and probably less.
He closed the door behind him. Kate’s recent purchases hadn’t included nightwear, unless she fancied voluminous neck-to-toe attire. Around her shoulders she wore a Norwich shawl.
Quin pulled off his coat, his waistcoat, unwound his cravat. Kate watched without expression. He wondered how far he’d have to go to wring a reaction from her.
And then he wondered if he truly wanted her to react to him, and why, or if this aberrant notion was result of the annoyances and frustrations of the past several hours.
“Nice shawl,” he observed. “Did Beau purchase it for you?”
“Did you purchase it, you mean? The shawl suited my coloring, he said.” Kate rested her dark head against the back of the chair. “Mr. Loversall introduced me to Mme Dubois as Kate Manvers. I daresay it hasn’t occurred to you that I might have a care for my reputation, Quin.”
Lord Quinton was hardly in the habit of concerning himself with female reputations. Feeling vaguely guilty, he moved to the fireplace. “Being as you are residing beneath my roof, your reputation is already tarnished beyond repair.” He paused before he added, “You are safe here, Kate.”
Wryly, she regarded him. “It’s you who are safe, from other women, so long as I am on the premises. Or so you may think. You have not succeeded in making yourself ineligible, you know.”
Quin rested an elbow against the mantle. “ Touché .” Was Kate as aware as he of the huge bed looming in the shadows? Her feet were bare.
And very pretty feet they were. Quin knew every crease and curve. His fingers tingled with the memory of caressing her, tracing the length of her scar.
If only those once-perfect feet had grown callouses and thickened nails.
Quin left off thinking of Kate and bunions, a futile effort at any rate since it was proving no deterrent to his desire.
Thought of his eligibility, however, was. The Quintons were an ancient family, mentioned in the Domesday Book; they had been granted lands in Essex and Dorset by Duke William of Normandy following the Battle of Hastings in 1066. The title of feudal barony became one by patent — ‘and for Us Our heirs and successors do appoint give and grant until him the same name state degree style dignity title and honour of Baron to have and to hold unto him and their heirs male of his body lawfully begotten and to be begotten’ — issued by King John as result of some covert activity concerning the Magna Carta. In the ensuing centuries the Barons Quinton had successfully managed to curry favor and feather their nests, generation after generation, until the present day.
The current holder of the title had no heir nor was anxious to acquire one. Quin hoped his father was rolling in his grave.
Kate was observing him, more closely than he liked. “You never married?” he inquired.
“I lost my taste for the business,” she retorted. “After Verena Wickersham. What became of her? I never heard.”
Quin eyed the brandy decanter, which was on the other side of the room. “I couldn’t say. She attempted to arrange a compromising situation. I refused to
He opened the door. A fire burned on the hearth. A figure was curled up in the comfortable wing chair.
A female figure. But all the females were safely off the premises, or so he had believed. Quin realized he hadn’t actually seen Liliane depart.
She had been all conciliation since they struck their bargain. Quin didn’t trust her the merest fraction of an inch.
The figure stirred, sat up. Firelight gleamed in Kate’s dark hair.
How had he forgotten for a moment that Kate was in the house? He certainly had not forgotten what happened the last time they were alone together in this room.
She’d accused him of meaning to banish her to the ranks of his forgotten women. It wasn’t true. Quin hadn’t set out to seduce Kate, or if he had it was without ulterior intent, or with no more ulterior intent than usual, and probably less.
He closed the door behind him. Kate’s recent purchases hadn’t included nightwear, unless she fancied voluminous neck-to-toe attire. Around her shoulders she wore a Norwich shawl.
Quin pulled off his coat, his waistcoat, unwound his cravat. Kate watched without expression. He wondered how far he’d have to go to wring a reaction from her.
And then he wondered if he truly wanted her to react to him, and why, or if this aberrant notion was result of the annoyances and frustrations of the past several hours.
“Nice shawl,” he observed. “Did Beau purchase it for you?”
“Did you purchase it, you mean? The shawl suited my coloring, he said.” Kate rested her dark head against the back of the chair. “Mr. Loversall introduced me to Mme Dubois as Kate Manvers. I daresay it hasn’t occurred to you that I might have a care for my reputation, Quin.”
Lord Quinton was hardly in the habit of concerning himself with female reputations. Feeling vaguely guilty, he moved to the fireplace. “Being as you are residing beneath my roof, your reputation is already tarnished beyond repair.” He paused before he added, “You are safe here, Kate.”
Wryly, she regarded him. “It’s you who are safe, from other women, so long as I am on the premises. Or so you may think. You have not succeeded in making yourself ineligible, you know.”
Quin rested an elbow against the mantle. “ Touché .” Was Kate as aware as he of the huge bed looming in the shadows? Her feet were bare.
And very pretty feet they were. Quin knew every crease and curve. His fingers tingled with the memory of caressing her, tracing the length of her scar.
If only those once-perfect feet had grown callouses and thickened nails.
Quin left off thinking of Kate and bunions, a futile effort at any rate since it was proving no deterrent to his desire.
Thought of his eligibility, however, was. The Quintons were an ancient family, mentioned in the Domesday Book; they had been granted lands in Essex and Dorset by Duke William of Normandy following the Battle of Hastings in 1066. The title of feudal barony became one by patent — ‘and for Us Our heirs and successors do appoint give and grant until him the same name state degree style dignity title and honour of Baron to have and to hold unto him and their heirs male of his body lawfully begotten and to be begotten’ — issued by King John as result of some covert activity concerning the Magna Carta. In the ensuing centuries the Barons Quinton had successfully managed to curry favor and feather their nests, generation after generation, until the present day.
The current holder of the title had no heir nor was anxious to acquire one. Quin hoped his father was rolling in his grave.
Kate was observing him, more closely than he liked. “You never married?” he inquired.
“I lost my taste for the business,” she retorted. “After Verena Wickersham. What became of her? I never heard.”
Quin eyed the brandy decanter, which was on the other side of the room. “I couldn’t say. She attempted to arrange a compromising situation. I refused to
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