Carole Mortimer - Regency Scandal

It was pure arrogance on the part of the nobility to believe that their servants were not fully conversant with all their actions. And their foibles …

Pandora drew herself up to her full height before speaking coolly. ‘You must do as you see fit, your Grace.’

‘I usually do,’ Rupert replied mockingly even as he lifted her hand to his lips, his intent gaze deliberately holding her startled one as he placed those lips upon her gloved knuckles. ‘Until tomorrow, Pandora.’

She snatched her hand from his grasp as if burnt. ‘Goodbye, your Grace.’

‘Merely adieu, I assure you, my dear Pandora,’ he murmured throatily, watching closely as she hurried up the steps to the front door of the mansion house, that door opening as she reached the top of those steps to slip silently inside without so much as a backward glance.

A scowl creased Rupert’s brow as he now considered returning to his own London home.

And to the woman who would no doubt have made sure she would be awaiting him there …

‘How kind of you to call, your Grace!’ Pandora’s smile was one of vacuous politeness late the following morning as she rose to her feet in order to curtsy to Rupert as he strode with his usual arrogance into the blue-and-cream salon of her London town house. Endeavouring, as she nodded dismissal of Bentley, her butler, not to reveal by so much as a twitch of an eyebrow how disturbed she was that he had carried out his promise to call upon her this morning.

Which was not at all easy for her to do when the Duke looked so vitally handsome this morning. The gold of his hair was in tousled disarray upon his brow and about his ears and nape, those grey eyes piercing in that wicked, yet angelically handsome face. He was wearing a dark grey superfine over a silver waistcoat and snowy-white linen emphasised the width and power of his shoulders, black pantaloons hugging the long muscled length of his legs above highly polished black Hessians.

‘Your Grace, allow me to introduce you to the family lawyer, Mr Anthony Jessop.’ Pandora turned to the relatively young, dark-haired gentleman standing in the room with her. ‘Mr Jessop, his Grace, the Duke of Stratton.’

Mr Anthony Jessop—the two gentlemen having acknowledged each other, the lawyer with a gracious bow, the Duke with a terse nod—now looked less than comfortable at finding himself the focus of Rupert’s intense grey eyes as he gathered up his papers from the table. ‘You will let me know as soon as things are settled, Pandora?’ He turned to smile at her.

Having contacted Anthony Jessop at his offices first thing this morning and, that gentleman having duly called upon her a mere hour later, Pandora could not help but wish now that they had not concluded their business quite as efficiently as they had. She would have much preferred a valid excuse to encourage the Duke to leave her home!

‘I will.’ She rang for the butler, smiling warmly at the man who had been Barnaby’s lawyer for some years before he died, and latterly her own. Pandora had found his help invaluable this past year, as she attempted to not only run her own London household but also manage her private finances.

The lawyer turned to nod at the slightly younger man. ‘Your Grace.’

‘Jessop.’ There was no answering smile on Rupert’s face as he waited until the lawyer had withdrawn in the company of the butler before speaking again. ‘Springcleaning, Pandora?’

She gave him a startled look. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘There appear to be several trunks in your front hallway. Possibly awaiting collection before the contents are distributed to the poor?’

Pandora drew in a sharp breath at the directness of the Duke’s conversation; obviously they were to continue this morning in the same forthright manner as the previous evening—that is, with none of the social niceties!

Nevertheless, she would attempt to bring things back on track. ‘May I offer you refreshment, your Grace?’ Pandora looked across at him enquiringly.

He scowled darkly at her formal manner. ‘No.’

‘In that case, perhaps you would care to sit down, your Grace?’ she invited smoothly as she indicated the armchair furthest away from where she had now resumed her own seat on the edge of the cream sofa beside the window.

An invitation he blatantly ignored as he instead strode forcefully across the room to lower his impressive height down on to that sofa beside her. Pandora immediately found his proximity overpowering as she tried—and failed—to ignore his barely leashed vitality. ‘Perhaps you would care to explain what is going on, Pandora?’ he pressed.

‘Going on, your Grace?’

A humourless smile twisted his firm but sensual lips. ‘The presence of both the trunks in your hallway, and the overfamiliar lawyer in your salon.’

‘Is it not a lovely sunny morning, your Grace?’ Pandora turned to look out into the carefully tended and sunlit garden at the back of the house. ‘Did you choose to ride over this morning or come in your carriage?’

‘Does it matter?’ he dismissed impatiently.

‘I was merely—’

‘I know what you were “merely”, Pandora—and I have no intention of sitting here exchanging polite inanities with you.’ He eyed her grimly. ‘I will ask again—why was your lawyer here at this early hour and what are those trunks doing outside in your hallway?’

She frowned her irritation at his single-mindedness. ‘Could you not try to … to at least pretend to possess the art of polite conversation?’

‘No.’

Pandora rose restlessly to her feet. ‘As I assured you would be the case, I am perfectly recovered from last night’s—unpleasantness. Thank you for enquiring.’ She raised pointed brows.

Rupert ignored her obvious rebuke, could clearly see that—outwardly, at least—Pandora was indeed completely recovered from Sugdon’s less-than-subtle attentions, the gold of her hair once again swept up and arranged in those becoming curls, with several loose tendrils at her temples and nape, the pale lilac of her fashionable gown a perfect backdrop for the deep-violet colour of her eyes, a gentle blush in those ivory cheeks.

Yes, outwardly, Pandora Maybury gave every indication of being the polite and gracious hostess she was obviously trying so hard to appear.

And no doubt she would normally have succeeded, if one failed to notice the slight shadows beneath those beautiful violet-coloured eyes—eyes which, despite Rupert’s effort to convince himself otherwise, were now every bit as beautiful as they had appeared yesterday evening.

Or had no idea that the blush to her cheeks had been carefully applied rather than being natural. Or missed those lines of strain beside her politely smiling mouth. And the rapidly beating pulse in the long, graceful column of her throat and the shallow rise and fall of the fullness of her breasts above the low neckline of that lilac gown.

Or the presence of her lawyer—a man who, in Rupert’s estimation, had been far too familiar in addressing her as Pandora—and those damned packing boxes in the hallway!

Yes, if one failed to notice all of those things, then certainly she could be said to be completely recovered from the previous evening’s ordeal!