To Love a Lord (The Heart of a Duke #5)(8)

She tightened her grip upon her reticule. Or who, with their roving hands, could cause a woman being turned out, labeled a whore, and—

Jane collided with the butler’s back as he stopped beside a closed door. Her spectacles fell forward. “Forgive me,” she said hurriedly. She adjusted the frames, pushing them back on the brim of her nose. Goodness the man moved with far greater speed than she’d expect of one of his advanced years. “I—” Am distracted by my panic. “Forgive me,” she finished lamely.

He gave her another one of those kindly smiles and, blast, if they weren’t the first smiles she’d received in…She wracked her mind, well, blast, she couldn’t recall a time she’d received one of those types of smiles. The butler knocked. There had been plenty of smiles. Silence met his rapping. There had been plenty of leering grins. He knocked once more. There were also the knowing grins.

“Enter,” a booming voice called from within.

She braced her shoulders as the servant pressed the handle. Jane hovered at the entrance, thinking of all the smiles she’d received in the course of her life. There had also been cruel ones and mocking ones.

“My lord, a Mrs. Munroe has arrived from Mrs. Belden’s school.”

But never the kindly ones. A sheen filled her eyes. Blasted rain. She removed her spectacles and dashed a hand over her eyes. How else was there to account for the sheen there other than that moisture?

Silence met the servant’s pronouncement. She placed her wire rims on once more and looked across the room to the seated figure of the marquess. With the hard, chiseled planes of his face and the firm, noble brow and jaw, he was a regal specimen of noble perfection. She dimly registered the kindly servant backing out of the room. An irrational urge to call the kindly man back bubbled to her throat. The door closed with a quiet click that made her jump. Unnerved by the intensity of the marquess’ hard, impenetrable stare, Jane dropped a curtsy. “My lord.”

Belatedly, he climbed to his feet, unfurling to his full height. “Mrs. Munroe.” She swallowed hard. More than a foot taller than her own five foot-three inch figure, his broad shoulders and arms strained the fabric of his midnight black coat. But for his tousled dark hair, there was nothing soft or gentle or kind about this man. The mere strength of one such as he would rouse terror in the most seasoned soldiers. Then a single loose curl fell across his brow, momentarily softening him. With long, powerful fingers he brushed it back, as though annoyed by that weakening.

Lucifer.

She’d once read that Lucifer came to Earth disguised in the form of a gloriously handsome gentleman and set a person to sinning. Jane thrust aside the foolish ramblings.

He moved out from behind his desk and walked toward her, and she immediately retreated, which was, of course, foolish. More than twenty long strides separated them and she wasn’t easily roused to fear and…Her back thumped noisily against the door. “Mrs. Munroe,” he drawled, as he came to a stop at the center of the room. “Do you intend to stand at my door all afternoon or will you sit?”

That deep, mellifluous baritone was a devil’s tone, too. Smooth and refined, yet clipped and cool. There was nothing soft in that voice, either. “Sit,” she blurted.

He gave a flick of his wrist and she followed that subtle movement to the leather button sofa, and then looked to him once more. Did his lips turn up in a smile? Surely she’d merely imagined that faint expression of amusement? A coolly aloof, lofty gentleman such as he did not smile. She peered at the marquess through her glass lenses but could detect no trace of humor.

The marquess studied her through thick, hooded, black lashes and the singular intensity of his focus jolted her into motion. Jane tipped her chin up and sailed over to the nearby sofa. She hesitated, detesting that in claiming the seat he’d be granted even more of an advantage over her. Her previous positions in the homes of those vaunted nobles had taught her that they’d take, regardless of whether anything was offered. A muscle leapt at the corner of her eye. And she’d not offer anything to those indolent, self-serving lords.

“Mrs. Munroe?”

Jane hastily claimed a seat and folded her hands upon her lap. And waited. After all, her recent dismissal from Mrs. Belden’s had taught her the perils of her quick tongue. Surely for two months she might manage to be the proper, polite companion the marquess sought for his sister.

The Marquess of Waverly claimed the chair opposite her. He continued to examine her in that assessing way until she shifted under the weight of his scrutiny. She’d spent the better part of her life striving to remain invisible, to attract no notice. To be noticed was to be ruined, particularly for a young woman in a powerful nobleman’s employ. Jane promptly dropped her gaze to her lap. The fire snapped and hissed from within the hearth, however, the roaring fire did little to warm her. He knows. She fought to still her quaking fingers. Of course he didn’t know. How could he? She stole an upward peek at him. Or did he?

Ever the regal, polished nobleman, he reclined in his seat, elegant in repose. His long fingers rested along the arms of his mahogany armchair. He broke the impasse of silence. “Forgive me. I’d believed I’d been clear with Mrs. Belden that I would send around a carriage to retrieve you.”

Jane curled her hands into a white-knuckled grip. She should truly be focused on that carefully ignored detail accounting for her hasty travel plans. Retrieve her. Instead, she fixed on those two insolent words. Retrieve her, the way he might an errant child.