Biting her lip, Maia shook her head in an attempt to clear her mind and to dislodge the memories. She felt no guilt.
Why should she?
She remembered when he looked at her so intently, catching her eyes and holding her gaze. He’d lured her in, just like Galtier the
Then another thought struck her. Had he done it previously, at the masquerade ball? Was that why she’d been so bold?
The last vestige of guilt that might have lingered fled, leaving her much relieved. Certainly one little kiss after a few champagne drinks when her fiancé had been gone for eighteen months wasn’t the worst sin in the world, but Maia had had no little pang of remorse for it.
Especially since she hadn’t been able to completely forget it. But now it had all become clear to her. She wasn’t complicit in anything. It hadn’t really been her fault.
Lifting her head high, she squared her shoulders and continued down the stairs to the foyer. The butler, Crewston, was still waiting patiently and she handed him the note for Alexander.
“Where is the earl?” she asked.
“In his study, of course, miss,” he replied.
Relief flooded her. At least he wasn’t in his bedchamber. Her face heated again at the thought…which was now accompanied by a tactile memory from when her hands had settled against his linen-covered chest last night…and she shoved the accompanying images away.
Thus, her knock on the door to his study was bold and loud. If she had a squiggle of nervousness, Maia quickly squashed it and drew in a deep breath.
When he bade her enter, in the same annoyed voice as he always had, she opened the door with confidence and strode inside. Immediately she smelled the age and must of old paper and worn leather, and a hint of pine mingling with woodsmoke and cedar. Masculine smells that reminded her of her father’s library…and yet, not precisely.
As always, the curtains were drawn nearly completely together over each of the three windows that studded the exterior wall. And as before, she felt compelled to walk to the other end of the long chamber to open them. But this time she resisted the urge, understanding now why he blocked the sun. Nevertheless, the room was well-lit with lamps and candles so that it was as bright as day. And there was the barest crack of sunlight triangling through one set of drapes at the far end.
Books lined the walls, many of the shelves appearing to be two and three rows deep. Piles of other tomes, messy and awkward, littered the floor, his desk, the table, even the cupboard where he kept whiskey and brandy. Papers joined them, scrolls, sheafs of parchment bound together, along with pens and ink. Maia had noticed on previous occasions that the majority of the works he studied weren’t written in English, but in a variety of languages—from Greek to Latin to Aramaic to others she didn’t recognize.
He was writing when she came in, and even from her stance, she could see the splotches of ink on the paper. His penmanship was dark and bold, and rushed. He wrote with his left hand, and when he lifted it to dip the pen to refill its ink, she caught a glimpse of the smudge along the side of his palm. One of the perils of being left-handed, which was why she used blotting paper.
She doubted he would take kindly to the suggestion.
“What—” He looked up from beneath ferocious black brows. “Miss Woodmore.” He sounded exceedingly displeased.
She tried not to look at him, but it was difficult not to notice the strong, bare forearms resting on the desk. The color of well-tanned leather, they were covered with dark hair and surprisingly muscular. His wrists were solid and his square hands capable and ink-stained, dusted with more hair on the backs of them. His coat was nowhere to be seen; nor was a waistcoat or neckcloth. Although, perhaps that rumpled pile in the corner chair was the coat. The white shirt he wore fit over broad shoulders and the string that tied it at the neck was loose, and it sagged, showing the hollow of his throat. And—Maia’s knees went weak again—a little bit of dark hair springing up from beneath.
“I have something I believe you should see,” she said, ignoring the squirming in her gut and the flush rising once again in her cheeks. Stepping closer, she offered him the letter from Dewhurst.
Corvindale hesitated, then, muttering something under his breath, fairly snatched the missive from her hand. He barely glanced at her, and Maia found that no small relief. He seemed even more ill-tempered than usual.
Unable to stand still while he read the note, she walked to the far window and pulled the curtains open. Wide. With a good, hard, sweep of the heavy fabric.
Corvindale flinched, but she wasn’t certain if it was from the letter or from her bold disregard for his preferences.
It occurred to her, then, that she should be furious with the man for luring her into such improper situations. Why wasn’t she?
Why, instead of being angry, or feeling violated—which she
Why—
“Where did you get this?” he said, breaking the silence.
Maia turned. “It doesn’t matter. It’s obviously to Angelica from Lord Dewhurst. She hadn’t read it.”
He glanced down at the letter, his lips twisting, then back up at her. “So you count lifting seals as another of your talents, Miss Woodmore?”
“Another of my talents?”
The lips she’d kissed last night flattened into a mere line. “There are too many to enumerate, but I would count your aptitude for arguing excessively about the most minor of details and your uncanny sense for disrupting the most pleasant of days as two of your most well-honed abilities.”
Maia lifted her chin and walked over to the middle window, which sat at the halfway point of the chamber. Casting him an arch glance, she grasped each curtain panel, one of which overlapped the other, and yanked them apart with a flourish. A blast of sunlight cascaded into the room, bringing a soft, yellow glow to the piles of books and papers…and just brushing the edge of his desk. Still, the part of the room where his desk and the doorway were located was still swathed in shadow.
“Do go on, my lord,” she said. “You flatter me so.”
His scowl grew darker. “Miss Woodmore, you are impossible.”
“More flattery, Lord Corvindale? Incidentally,” she continued, “the most important part of lifting a seal is not the lifting itself, but how one replaces it. It’s important to ensure that the edges of the wax line up perfectly to its original outline.”
“Thank you, Miss Woodmore. I shall sleep much better this afternoon, knowing that trick.” Was it her imagination, or did his lips move slightly up at the corners?
No. Absurd.
“I suppose you will expect Mrs. Hunburgh to prepare something special for your tea with Mr. Bradington today,” Corvindale said, looking back down at his curling paper as he dipped his pen into the inkwell.
Maia opened her mouth to ask the obvious, then closed it. Of course Corvindale would know everything that occurred in his house. “No, indeed,” she replied. “I’m certain that Alexander and I won’t confine our visit to the parlor. A walk in the garden would be most lovely, don’t you agree, my lord?”
“It would certainly be my preference.” He looked back down at his work, and Maia was struck by how heartfelt his response was. She felt momentarily ashamed for her sly comment. But then he continued, thus absolving her from any guilt. “That way I won’t be obligated to listen to your giggles and his waxing poetic over your beauty, and whatever other inane conversation you must be compelled to have.”
Maia gritted her teeth but didn’t reply. She supposed she had rather asked for it, at least this time. She considered whether she wanted to raise his ire further by opening the last set of curtains, and, unaccountably annoyed by the businesslike scratch of his pen over paper, she was nearly ready to do so when he looked up.
“Still here, Miss Woodmore?”
