that’s when she remembered: her fingers had touched Lord Greenwich’s abdomen, firm male skin, pleasant to the touch.
The earl sported well-exercised, hard flatness…an interesting state for a recluse. This was not her first exposure to a man; nor was she one for fits of hysteria at the sight—or feel—of male flesh. But then Lord Greenwich wouldn’t know that. Her gaze wandered to the elegant portraiture.
“How do you feel about your son marrying a woman like me?” She crossed her arms. “But therein lies my trouble. To save my own mother, I must do this. Wouldn’t you want your son to do everything he could to save you?”
Lydia slid off the bed and picked up the brass snuffer to extinguish the candles. She paused, hand in midair, glancing at the dominating portrait.
“I don’t relish marriage to any man. No more than you probably relish me marrying your son.”
And there was that slight misunderstanding that needed to be rectified. She rubbed her tired eyes and set the snuffer down. A shaft of light beamed from under an adjoining door. Of course, the door to the earl’s room. Lydia tucked a thick lock of hair behind her ear.
“At the very least, clear the air,” she decided aloud.
The soles of her feet sped over the luxuriant pile, and her fist poised to knock on the adjoining door. She stopped short and cocked her head. Voices, a man’s and a woman’s, carried faintly. Lydia stared at the narrow beam under the door. Was that Miss Mayhew’s voice? What game did his lordship play? A valet perhaps would attend at this hour, but not a woman. Her apology and confession fell by the wayside. Lydia grabbed the doorknob, ready to give Lord Greenwich a few choice words.
Five
Clear conscience never feared midnight knocking.
—Chinese Proverb
She scanned the room, heart pounding, and braced herself for…silence. Not a soul was present. There had been voices, in particular his lordship’s voice, somewhere in all this…mess.
The whole room cried disaster. Mismatched furniture competed with an abundance of books. Three bookstands acted as stems for massive tomes. Near those bookstands, a large, poorly crafted table held sizable sheaves of paper. Maps from the look. Everywhere, volumes stacked in such a scrabbled mess.
Not at all what one expected of nobility, then again, neither was the adjoining pink monstrosity. Large pillar candles blazed brilliantly, leaving excess wax pooled on tabletops. A man’s clothes piled in haphazard array across a rough sea chest. A pile of breeches taunted her, reminding her of where her hand had been less than an hour past, and the humbling fact that she owed Lord Greenwich an explanation…no, scratch that, explanations in the plural. Moments ago, she’d made base assumptions about him and his housekeeper.
Worse yet, she’d marched uninvited into a man’s bedchamber well past midnight. Her record of decision making this eve left much to be desired.
And then she spied him.
A dark blond head showed above the back of a large leather chair. Lord Greenwich, oblivious to her presence, faced a roaring fire, his stocking feet propped on a leather stool. Lydia slowly, carefully let the air from her lungs. She could turn back. Wait for morning. Her hands clenched into fists. When she opened them, Lydia willed control.
“My lord. A moment of your time, if you please.”
Her words shot like a musket blast through the quiet room. Masculine feet jerked off the stool, and a male hand set a crystal glass on a side table with care. Firelight played inside the jostled amber liquid.
“Miss Montgomery. I thought you were asleep.”
He didn’t stand up to face her, but his tanned fingers gripped the crystal glass.
Emboldened, Lydia strode a few paces forward. “I’m surprisingly awake.” She rubbed her chilled hands. “When I saw the light under your door, I thought I heard voices…”
“That was Miss Lumley taking the laundry.”
“I see.” She fidgeted, feeling a
The earl sported well-exercised, hard flatness…an interesting state for a recluse. This was not her first exposure to a man; nor was she one for fits of hysteria at the sight—or feel—of male flesh. But then Lord Greenwich wouldn’t know that. Her gaze wandered to the elegant portraiture.
“How do you feel about your son marrying a woman like me?” She crossed her arms. “But therein lies my trouble. To save my own mother, I must do this. Wouldn’t you want your son to do everything he could to save you?”
Lydia slid off the bed and picked up the brass snuffer to extinguish the candles. She paused, hand in midair, glancing at the dominating portrait.
“I don’t relish marriage to any man. No more than you probably relish me marrying your son.”
And there was that slight misunderstanding that needed to be rectified. She rubbed her tired eyes and set the snuffer down. A shaft of light beamed from under an adjoining door. Of course, the door to the earl’s room. Lydia tucked a thick lock of hair behind her ear.
“At the very least, clear the air,” she decided aloud.
The soles of her feet sped over the luxuriant pile, and her fist poised to knock on the adjoining door. She stopped short and cocked her head. Voices, a man’s and a woman’s, carried faintly. Lydia stared at the narrow beam under the door. Was that Miss Mayhew’s voice? What game did his lordship play? A valet perhaps would attend at this hour, but not a woman. Her apology and confession fell by the wayside. Lydia grabbed the doorknob, ready to give Lord Greenwich a few choice words.
Five
Clear conscience never feared midnight knocking.
—Chinese Proverb
She scanned the room, heart pounding, and braced herself for…silence. Not a soul was present. There had been voices, in particular his lordship’s voice, somewhere in all this…mess.
The whole room cried disaster. Mismatched furniture competed with an abundance of books. Three bookstands acted as stems for massive tomes. Near those bookstands, a large, poorly crafted table held sizable sheaves of paper. Maps from the look. Everywhere, volumes stacked in such a scrabbled mess.
Not at all what one expected of nobility, then again, neither was the adjoining pink monstrosity. Large pillar candles blazed brilliantly, leaving excess wax pooled on tabletops. A man’s clothes piled in haphazard array across a rough sea chest. A pile of breeches taunted her, reminding her of where her hand had been less than an hour past, and the humbling fact that she owed Lord Greenwich an explanation…no, scratch that, explanations in the plural. Moments ago, she’d made base assumptions about him and his housekeeper.
Worse yet, she’d marched uninvited into a man’s bedchamber well past midnight. Her record of decision making this eve left much to be desired.
And then she spied him.
A dark blond head showed above the back of a large leather chair. Lord Greenwich, oblivious to her presence, faced a roaring fire, his stocking feet propped on a leather stool. Lydia slowly, carefully let the air from her lungs. She could turn back. Wait for morning. Her hands clenched into fists. When she opened them, Lydia willed control.
“My lord. A moment of your time, if you please.”
Her words shot like a musket blast through the quiet room. Masculine feet jerked off the stool, and a male hand set a crystal glass on a side table with care. Firelight played inside the jostled amber liquid.
“Miss Montgomery. I thought you were asleep.”
He didn’t stand up to face her, but his tanned fingers gripped the crystal glass.
Emboldened, Lydia strode a few paces forward. “I’m surprisingly awake.” She rubbed her chilled hands. “When I saw the light under your door, I thought I heard voices…”
“That was Miss Lumley taking the laundry.”
“I see.” She fidgeted, feeling a
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