candelabrum
to light the way in the darkened house, tiptoeing down the wide
staircase and across the tiled foyer, each step taking her farther
from her aunt and closer to adventure. She scrubbed roughly at her
face with the back of her free hand, knowing she no longer needed
any artificial color to bring a glow to her cheeks.
“Here you go, miss,” the servant said at
last, opening the door to the study and then drawing back a pace.
“His lordship said for me to come back in an hour—no more, no
less—to guide you back to your chamber. I’ll knock on this door
when it’s time.”
Christine tried to thank the man, but found
that no words could push themselves past the sudden constriction of
her throat, so she merely smiled and nodded her understanding
before stepping inside the earl’s study, her body stiffening as she
heard the door click closed behind her, effectively locking her
inside with a stranger. This was it; there was no turning back now.
She had committed herself to whatever was to come.
Chapter 10
I t was extremely
dark in the room after the brightness of the hallway, a fact that
did not surprise her, as she had expected nothing else. The Earl of
Hawkhurst seemed to be positively fascinated with the darker
hours.
A few candles had been placed about the
perimeter of the room and they threw flickering halos of light
against the darkly paneled walls, but the main source of light was
that created by the fire burning in the hearth. Instinctively, she
drew closer to it, and the two wingbacked chairs that faced the
fireplace.
“My lord Hawkhurst?” she asked in a thin,
choked voice that barely dented the silence.
“My name is Vincent. Vincent Mayhew. I have
only been the Earl of Hawkhurst for four years, thanks to a
woefully unproductive uncle who carelessly left his title and
inheritance to fall to me. The title, quite frankly, is a source of
disinterest to me, although I have found his enormous wealth
tolerable. I would rather you call me Vincent, Christine.”
The earl’s voice had come from the depths of
one of the chairs, and Christine prudently lowered herself into its
mate, sinking deeply into the soft leather, her legs swinging
freely several inches above the floor.
She deliberately averted her gaze from the
other chair, staring into the fire so long that her eyes began to
sting. “I don’t play chess, Vincent,” she announced baldly at last,
feeling the need to answer truth with truth. “I only wanted to see
you again.”
“ See me, Christine?” Vincent echoed,
ignoring her confession, which only succeeded in making her feel
more guilty. “Am I then reflected in the flames?”
Christine’s eyes narrowed as her feelings of
guilt disappeared. She lifted her chin, refusing to be baited. “You
have made it abundantly clear that you guard your privacy with a
vengeance. I am merely being polite, sir. Besides, it is so dark
and gloomy in here, I can barely see my own hand in front of my
face.”
His amused chuckle made her blood boil. “The
so proper Miss Denham is reluctant to injure my undoubtedly tender
sensibilities, although she cannot hold back her censure. How very
kind. How very condescending. And it’s killing you, Christine, this
not looking at me, isn’t it?”
Her hands gripped the arms of the chair
until her knuckles showed white, but she did not turn her head. He
was so smug. How she longed to do him an injury. “Yes!” she
admitted in a tight voice.
“Poor infant. How frustrated you must be,
torn between your curiosity and your good manners, doubtless taught
to you by your dragon aunt, Miss Denham, whom you have left
dreaming girlish dreams in her chamber while you tiptoe down the
stairs to seek delicious danger like some penny-press heroine. But
what must be will be, my dear, for this particular Curiosity does
not display himself merely to titillate inquisitive young
ladies.”
Christine had been slowly gaining the upper
hand on her temper. Clearly a cool head,
to light the way in the darkened house, tiptoeing down the wide
staircase and across the tiled foyer, each step taking her farther
from her aunt and closer to adventure. She scrubbed roughly at her
face with the back of her free hand, knowing she no longer needed
any artificial color to bring a glow to her cheeks.
“Here you go, miss,” the servant said at
last, opening the door to the study and then drawing back a pace.
“His lordship said for me to come back in an hour—no more, no
less—to guide you back to your chamber. I’ll knock on this door
when it’s time.”
Christine tried to thank the man, but found
that no words could push themselves past the sudden constriction of
her throat, so she merely smiled and nodded her understanding
before stepping inside the earl’s study, her body stiffening as she
heard the door click closed behind her, effectively locking her
inside with a stranger. This was it; there was no turning back now.
She had committed herself to whatever was to come.
Chapter 10
I t was extremely
dark in the room after the brightness of the hallway, a fact that
did not surprise her, as she had expected nothing else. The Earl of
Hawkhurst seemed to be positively fascinated with the darker
hours.
A few candles had been placed about the
perimeter of the room and they threw flickering halos of light
against the darkly paneled walls, but the main source of light was
that created by the fire burning in the hearth. Instinctively, she
drew closer to it, and the two wingbacked chairs that faced the
fireplace.
“My lord Hawkhurst?” she asked in a thin,
choked voice that barely dented the silence.
“My name is Vincent. Vincent Mayhew. I have
only been the Earl of Hawkhurst for four years, thanks to a
woefully unproductive uncle who carelessly left his title and
inheritance to fall to me. The title, quite frankly, is a source of
disinterest to me, although I have found his enormous wealth
tolerable. I would rather you call me Vincent, Christine.”
The earl’s voice had come from the depths of
one of the chairs, and Christine prudently lowered herself into its
mate, sinking deeply into the soft leather, her legs swinging
freely several inches above the floor.
She deliberately averted her gaze from the
other chair, staring into the fire so long that her eyes began to
sting. “I don’t play chess, Vincent,” she announced baldly at last,
feeling the need to answer truth with truth. “I only wanted to see
you again.”
“ See me, Christine?” Vincent echoed,
ignoring her confession, which only succeeded in making her feel
more guilty. “Am I then reflected in the flames?”
Christine’s eyes narrowed as her feelings of
guilt disappeared. She lifted her chin, refusing to be baited. “You
have made it abundantly clear that you guard your privacy with a
vengeance. I am merely being polite, sir. Besides, it is so dark
and gloomy in here, I can barely see my own hand in front of my
face.”
His amused chuckle made her blood boil. “The
so proper Miss Denham is reluctant to injure my undoubtedly tender
sensibilities, although she cannot hold back her censure. How very
kind. How very condescending. And it’s killing you, Christine, this
not looking at me, isn’t it?”
Her hands gripped the arms of the chair
until her knuckles showed white, but she did not turn her head. He
was so smug. How she longed to do him an injury. “Yes!” she
admitted in a tight voice.
“Poor infant. How frustrated you must be,
torn between your curiosity and your good manners, doubtless taught
to you by your dragon aunt, Miss Denham, whom you have left
dreaming girlish dreams in her chamber while you tiptoe down the
stairs to seek delicious danger like some penny-press heroine. But
what must be will be, my dear, for this particular Curiosity does
not display himself merely to titillate inquisitive young
ladies.”
Christine had been slowly gaining the upper
hand on her temper. Clearly a cool head,
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