Catherine Archer - Lord Sin

Realizing this only seemed to bring her a discomfort that she somehow feared to examine too closely. With these dismaying thoughts in mind, it was with little enthusiasm that she opened the front door.

To her utter amazement, Ian Sinclair himself stood on the stoop. A sudden nervous chill gripped her and she hesitated before speaking. Seeing him was especially unnerving considering her recent preoccupation with him. Telling herself she was being foolish, she opened the portal and said, with much more breathlessness than she would have hoped, “Good afternoon, Lord Sinclair. Is there something I can do for you?”

To her surprise he seemed somewhat hesitant, even agitated himself, turning his black silk hat in his hands. He stopped, his dark gaze meeting hers as his brows arched upward. “I…may I come in?”

She stepped back, realizing that she must seem somewhat foolish standing there gawking at him like some besotted schoolgirl. Determinedly Mary told herself she was not attracted to him, in spite of his undeniable good looks. She was simply overreacting to the fact that he had twice been there when she needed someone.

She would remain calm. Yet her heartbeat quickened as he stepped across the threshold to stand so near that she could see the fine shadow of mustache above his mobile lips. Would it, she wondered, feel rough if he should kiss her?

Mary’s eyes flew wide with horror at her own thoughts. She certainly did not want Ian Sinclair to kiss her.

To her relief he did not appear to notice her agitation and continued to seem somewhat nervous as his gaze slid away from her to graze the tabletop. Then he appeared to frown with displeasure as his eyes alighted on the letters she had been thinking of only moments before. “Your requests for employment?”

She nodded, too surprised by his reaction to resent the prying question. “Yes.”

His frown deepened for a moment before he straightened his already wide shoulders and took a deep breath. For some reason she had the distinct impression that he had come to a decision about something. His next words served only to confuse her further. “I have come to ask you a question.”

“Oh,” she replied, not at all certain as to what she should say. Studying him closely for a moment and judging him no less nervous, she began to think this was no ordinary question. What of import could Ian Sinclair have to say to her? Did he have some position in mind for her?

Ian continued to look down at her in the long, narrow hallway, and Mary glanced away, knowing that the light from the window that sat high in the door illuminated her own face much more clearly than his. In spite of the dim lighting she was very much aware of his being too tall and imposing for such humble surroundings.

Trying to still her sudden trembling, Mary reached out with her free hand. “May I take your hat?” She halted as she saw the traces of dust on her white fingers. With a selfconscious laugh, she wiped the hand on her apron, then indicated the book in her other hand. “I have been packing my father’s books. I will be taking some of my favorites with me.”

He glanced at the volume. “You read Greek?”

She looked down at the book. “Why…I…yes, father was a great scholar. He taught me everything he would have taught a son.” She held her head high, knowing how most men disapproved of the practice of educating females and referred to them as bluestockings.

But Ian did not seem the least bit shocked or disapproving of her revelation as she reached out again and he gave her the silk hat. He said only, “I see.”

How very nice for him, she thought with a trace of irony, for she certainly did not see. She hoped he came to the point soon, for she was growing more uncertain by the moment. With deliberate care Mary placed the hat on the rack along the wall and turned back to him.

“Would you care for some refreshment? I could make some tea.”

He shook his head, his intense onyx eyes meeting hers again. “No, thank you.” Once more she had the impression that this was no ordinary social call. She told herself she was imagining things.

In spite of her self-assurances, it was with growing unease that Mary motioned toward the open door of the study. The chamber was in a state of upheaval because she had been packing the books, but it was one of the few rooms that did not have dust covers over the furnishings. “Won’t you come in and sit down?”

The answer that accompanied his polite nod only served to make her more unsure. “Yes, I think that would probably be best.” She did her utmost not to worry herself over this last strange remark as they sat on the two matched navy blue wing chairs near the window.

With studied poise Mary folded her hands in her lap and waited for Ian Sinclair to begin. He did so after only a moment. “Miss Fulton, I realize that what I am about to say may seem somewhat precipitous to you, especially as we have only known one another for a very short time.”

She frowned, wondering where on earth this could be leading. “Go on.”

He surprised her by reaching over and taking her cold hand in his warm one. Mary was too amazed to either comment or draw her hand away and she listened to him continue with only half her mind, as the touch of his warm skin made her own tingle with awareness. “I know that the last months have been very difficult for you and that you find yourself in somewhat distressed circumstances. I want you to know that if the situation were otherwise I would not speak so hastily.” His dark eyes were full of meaningful intent as she looked up into them, feeling herself drawn closer to him, though she made no physical movement.

She shook her head, her eyes wide. “I cannot think what you might be talking about, sir.”

He squared his wide shoulders. “I am asking, Miss Mary Fulton, if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

The words had the effect of creating a thick haze of shock and confusion around her. She looked down at her hand in his, feeling as if it was miles from herself.

How—why was this happening? It could not be real. Ian Sinclair, eminently eligible bachelor and heir to an earldom, could not be asking her to marry him.

For heaven’s sake, they did not even like one another. A sudden vivid memory of the kiss they had shared only days before in her own backyard insinuated itself into her mind. Even through the fog of her confusion Mary felt a tug in her lower belly.

She shook her head to drive the thought away. That kiss had not occurred because Ian liked her. He’d said himself that he was only trying to comfort her.

Was that possibly why he was doing this, she asked herself, because he felt sorry for her? Her sense of confusion cleared slightly at the thought. She looked at him closely and found that he was still watching her with that same intent expression he’d worn since entering the vicarage.

Forcing herself to speak calmly, she asked, “Why…why are you doing this? Is it because you feel—” she sat up straighter, forcing herself to go on “—sorry for me?”

The immediate and forceful tone of his reply made her believe him when he said, “No, absolutely not. I have no need to marry any woman out of sympathy.”

A frown marred her brow as she wondered why, then, he would wish to marry her. “Tell me what has brought this about? I don’t understand.”

He leaned close to her, his tone intimate. “Don’t you, Mary? You are a beautiful woman. I also think you would make just the kind of bride I have been searching for.”

The words caused her heart to beat more quickly, even as she realized that for a moment there was something odd in his tone, almost a hint of bitterness. But as he went on looking at her that way she told herself she had imagined it.