The Girl in the Steel Corset - By Kady Cross Page 0,16
Grace? Rich Boy’s father was a duke? Bugger it. She was certain he had to know the August-Raynes family. Would he send her back? Or worse, call the Peelers—the police force named after Robert Peel—and have her arrested?
At the thought, that other part of her rose up in defiance. She’d break Rich Boy’s daddy’s pretty neck before she’d let the Peelers carry her off to Newgate or Bedlam.
She shook her head, trying to rid it of the darkness. What was this…this thing inside her? It made her think such horrible things at times. It also kept her from becoming a victim. Made her strong when others thought her weak. She hated it and yet, shamefully, she liked it.
One thing she knew for certain—it wasn’t right.
The library door was open, but she knocked lightly before entering. She wasn’t accustomed to walking about freely in a house like this. Generally she kept to her rooms if she hadn’t work to do. Servants weren’t supposed to flutter about where someone important might see them.
But she wasn’t a servant here. She was a guest. Or perhaps a prisoner.
And what a prison! Finley’s jaw dropped as her gaze fell upon floor-to-ceiling shelves filled wall-to-wall with books. So many books—more than she’d ever seen in one place.
“Hello?” Not so cocky now, she moved cautiously into the room. “Is anyone here?”
“Hello.”
She looked up. There, on the balcony that wrapped around the entire room, was Rich Boy. His forearms rested on the railing as he smiled down at her, thick reddish hair falling over his forehead. He wore black trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and collar open underneath a black leather waistcoat. She watched as he walked around to come down the narrow, curving staircase, his thick-soled boots clomping slightly on the wooden steps. He moved with loose-limbed grace, like someone who knew exactly who he was and didn’t care if anyone liked it or not.
Lucky bugger.
He came right up to her and offered his hand. “Griffin King.”
Finley’s head jerked up. Griffin King. The Duke of Greythorne. She had overheard Lady Alyss discussing him with several of her friends just last week. They said he was handsome, rich beyond understanding and had a nice bottom. At this moment Finley couldn’t give an opinion on the last, but he certainly was lovely to look at and gave the impression of being filthy rich.
No daddy then. Just him. They had something in common it seemed, despite the vast social chasm between them.
Hesitantly, she put her hand into his before slipping into a deep curtsy. “Finley Jayne, Your Grace.” She lowered her gaze.
“Don’t do that,” he replied in a low, stern tone. “We’re equals in this house.”
She glanced at him in surprise, and quickly rose to her feet. “How’s that?” she asked.
His smile was crooked, but it did little to ease the wariness in Finley’s chest. “I’ve seen what you can do, Finley. Would you be surprised if I told you I had some talents of my own?”
“What I have is hardly a talent,” she replied. A curse, perhaps. More than likely a demon. What she needed was a good exorcism.
He cocked his head to one side, still holding her hand. His gray-blue gaze narrowed slightly, as though he was looking right into her. “How would you describe it?”
She pulled away, suddenly unsure of herself, but sure enough not to say aloud what she’d thought to herself. “What happened with Sam? The whole house shook when he stormed out.”
“It could be any number of things.” There was that lopsided grin again. “Nice attempt at changing the subject, by the way.” Then he gestured toward the sofa. “Have a seat.”
Part of her wanted to run, but a stronger part wanted to stay. She wasn’t certain which was the smarter choice, but she crossed the carpet and sat down on the violet brocade sofa. She stiffened when Griffin seated himself on the opposite end, scarcely two feet away.
“Relax,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you. I doubt I could anyway. I suspect you could trounce me with one hand behind your back.”
As he spoke, some of the rigidity left Finley’s spine. She was indeed relaxing—at his command. “And I suspect you’re not as powerless as you would like me to believe,” she commented, turning so that she could face him directly.
He seemed amused, and she was very much aware that he wasn’t the least bit afraid of her. “You think I pretend weakness?”