minded, Lady Penpol.” Lambrick bowed to her aunt then turned back to Melwyn. “Mark my words, Lady Pencavel, I will have you someday. Maybe not tonight, or even tomorrow, but soon, very soon,” he whispered. “And I abhor the dog tax.” He touched her cheek, doffed his hat to Aunt Hedra, then bounded down the terrace steps and vanished into the moonlit garden.
Melwyn groaned, her heart pattering like a drum, or a bugle during a call to arms. That horrid, but extremely sexy, man was growing on her like lichen. How soon could she escape the country to save herself?
Chapter Six
Griffin’s valet, a massive block of a young man who’d been with him for six years— raised up from the position of footman after he’d proven his loyal nature—stirred the dish of shaving paste.
“Is my new razor sharp?” Griffin ran his hand along his bristly chin. The well-appointed inn where they stayed in Moorgate had solid mahogany furniture and a four-post bed piled high with feather mattresses, which he would unfortunately share with no one. The Italian, giltwood mirror he stared into was of good manufacture as well. He frowned. He didn’t appear any different, yet life had taken on a mesmerizing meaning he couldn’t define. “The razor touted to be made on ‘philosophical principles’? Of all the nonsense.”
“Of course, sir. And I’ve studied Benjamin Kingsbury’s Treatise on the Use and Management of a Razor, as you instructed.” Kenver’s square, but handsome face under light brown hair, broke into a smile. “That Huguenot in Pall Mall, Mr. Savigny, promised the sharpest crucible steel, that he did. And the Fleet Street perfumer swore his paste was the best.”
“All the London shopkeepers claim their wares are the finest.” Griffin tried to push his mind to other things, and away from one troubling gamine. Why was he still here, and not leaving for Cornwall? “A man in these times is viewed as eccentric or worse if unshaven. A beard is for a hermit, or only worn on religious terms.”
“Wise, as always, sir. And I appreciate you allowing me to learn along with you, and improving my speech.” Kenver began to lather the pasty soap over Griffin’s face.
“Well, it’s a trial when you—meaning aristocrats such as I, and nobles—can’t understand the King’s English after being garbled through regional influences.”
The smell of olive oil and fragrant spices was pleasing, playing down the scent of animal fat.
“Right you are.” Kenver chuckled. “How was your night at Almack’s, sir? You’ve never said.”
Griffin fought a sigh. Why had he kissed Miss Pencavel, again, two nights ago? He’d seen her with that milksop of a baron’s son, and had to possess her out on the terrace. He’d really wanted to cart her off and have his way with her in the bushes, but damned protocol prevented it. And he’d never bed an unwilling woman.
“An eventful evening, if distracting me from what I should do, which is to return home.” He clenched his fist around the cushiony edges of his velvet dressing gown. “I have no time for such frivolities.”
“Are we returning to Merther Manor, sir?” The valet smeared more paste on his master’s neck.
The warmth against Griffin’s skin soothed his fractured emotions.
“Not yet. Go down to the kitchen and choose my steak for later this evening, but no honey sauce. I suppose I must suffer the sooty vegetables boiled in a pan.” Griffin had no appetite, but his mind raced in circles. “If there’s nothing decent here, we will go to a tavern for a table d’hôte .”
“Why do you quality use those snooty French sayings, when we hate the French, sir?” Kenver began to run the sharp blade along Griffin’s beard, scraping away the hair.
Griffin bristled, as he usually did at the mention of anything to do with the French. He heard in his memory the cheerful laughter of his brother when they were children. But he had to remain calm while
Melwyn groaned, her heart pattering like a drum, or a bugle during a call to arms. That horrid, but extremely sexy, man was growing on her like lichen. How soon could she escape the country to save herself?
Chapter Six
Griffin’s valet, a massive block of a young man who’d been with him for six years— raised up from the position of footman after he’d proven his loyal nature—stirred the dish of shaving paste.
“Is my new razor sharp?” Griffin ran his hand along his bristly chin. The well-appointed inn where they stayed in Moorgate had solid mahogany furniture and a four-post bed piled high with feather mattresses, which he would unfortunately share with no one. The Italian, giltwood mirror he stared into was of good manufacture as well. He frowned. He didn’t appear any different, yet life had taken on a mesmerizing meaning he couldn’t define. “The razor touted to be made on ‘philosophical principles’? Of all the nonsense.”
“Of course, sir. And I’ve studied Benjamin Kingsbury’s Treatise on the Use and Management of a Razor, as you instructed.” Kenver’s square, but handsome face under light brown hair, broke into a smile. “That Huguenot in Pall Mall, Mr. Savigny, promised the sharpest crucible steel, that he did. And the Fleet Street perfumer swore his paste was the best.”
“All the London shopkeepers claim their wares are the finest.” Griffin tried to push his mind to other things, and away from one troubling gamine. Why was he still here, and not leaving for Cornwall? “A man in these times is viewed as eccentric or worse if unshaven. A beard is for a hermit, or only worn on religious terms.”
“Wise, as always, sir. And I appreciate you allowing me to learn along with you, and improving my speech.” Kenver began to lather the pasty soap over Griffin’s face.
“Well, it’s a trial when you—meaning aristocrats such as I, and nobles—can’t understand the King’s English after being garbled through regional influences.”
The smell of olive oil and fragrant spices was pleasing, playing down the scent of animal fat.
“Right you are.” Kenver chuckled. “How was your night at Almack’s, sir? You’ve never said.”
Griffin fought a sigh. Why had he kissed Miss Pencavel, again, two nights ago? He’d seen her with that milksop of a baron’s son, and had to possess her out on the terrace. He’d really wanted to cart her off and have his way with her in the bushes, but damned protocol prevented it. And he’d never bed an unwilling woman.
“An eventful evening, if distracting me from what I should do, which is to return home.” He clenched his fist around the cushiony edges of his velvet dressing gown. “I have no time for such frivolities.”
“Are we returning to Merther Manor, sir?” The valet smeared more paste on his master’s neck.
The warmth against Griffin’s skin soothed his fractured emotions.
“Not yet. Go down to the kitchen and choose my steak for later this evening, but no honey sauce. I suppose I must suffer the sooty vegetables boiled in a pan.” Griffin had no appetite, but his mind raced in circles. “If there’s nothing decent here, we will go to a tavern for a table d’hôte .”
“Why do you quality use those snooty French sayings, when we hate the French, sir?” Kenver began to run the sharp blade along Griffin’s beard, scraping away the hair.
Griffin bristled, as he usually did at the mention of anything to do with the French. He heard in his memory the cheerful laughter of his brother when they were children. But he had to remain calm while
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