Pride and Pleasure by Sylvia Day

was even known to become somewhat of a pest, if Jasper went too long without enlisting him for some task or another. “See you at ten?”
    “Perfect.”
     
    Eliza had just pulled on a dressing gown and settled in front of her vanity mirror when a knock came to her boudoir door. When bade to enter, a white-capped maid stepped in and curtsied. “His lordship asks for you, miss.”
    “Thank you.”
    Frowning, Eliza watched the servant back out of the room. She’d enjoyed tea with her uncle just an hour before, listening fondly as he spoke at length and with great animation about his latest botanical experiments. Once, their solarium had been filled with comfortable chaises and short bookcases. Now, it housed rows of long tables supporting various potted plants. Eliza didn’t mind the loss of her former favorite reading spot, appreciating how the experiments in the glass space exposed his lordship to sunlight and fresh air.
    What would cause him to ask for her now, at an hour when she was beginning preparations for the evening’s social events? Perhaps he had an epiphany of some sort or something of a celebratory nature to share? He once woke her before sunrise because a splicing experiment yielded unexpectedly delightful results.
    She stood and pulled a comfortable house gown out of the wardrobe. Then she called for her abigail, Mary, who entered the room from the bathing chamber and assisted Eliza in securing the row of buttons following the length of her spine. Despite skipping her chemise and stays, it took long moments to become presentable. Eliza tied a quick ribbon around her unbound hair and considered herself ready enough.
    “What will you wear tonight?” Mary asked.
    “Lay out three of your favorites.” Eliza opened the door to the gallery. “I’ll pick one when I return.”
    She often left the selection of clothing to her abigail. It didn’t matter what Mary chose—Eliza always picked the gown on the farthest right. Her dresses were all impeccable, if unremarkable, having been created by a seamstress who was in high demand for her skill. The modiste had originally protested Eliza’s selection of colors that, while fashionable, did little to emphasize the hue of her hair. But eventually the hopelessness of the objections became patently clear, and Eliza was spared from hearing them. She felt it was only fair to avoid giving anyone the notion she was attempting to entice or set a lure. Since the most popular shades were pastels and she looked best in darker colors, there was no excuse for her to dress with self-flattery in mind.
    She left the room and headed directly to the family parlor on the same floor. The door was ajar. A fire crackled merrily in the grate, and his lordship paced before it in his usual state of dishabille—mussed hair, lopsided cravat, and unevenly buttoned waistcoat sans coat.
    Eliza entered with a brisk stride. “My lord?”
    He faced her with a distracted smile. “I’m sorry to disturb you, my dear, but you have a visitor.”
    She glanced down at her hastily composed presentation. “A visitor? Downstairs?”
    “Good evening, Miss Martin.”
    Jasper’s voice. A shiver coursed down her spine at the sound. Pivoting, she found him standing behind the door. His gaze was narrowed, his face austere. He was dressed in the same riding garments he had been wearing when she’d seen him in the park, but his cravat was less crisp and the outside of his boots bore traces of scuffing.
    As they did every time she saw him, her thoughts skidded to a halt. It took her the length of several heartbeats to remember to speak.
    There was no hiding the way her breath hitched when she greeted him. “Mr. Bond.”

Chapter 4
    “B ehave yourself as promised, young man,” Melville said , before hurrying from the room. Clearly, he was eager to return to whatever he’d been doing before being interrupted. The door was left open, but Eliza doubted such measures would impede a man like Jasper if he was