Pride and Papercuts (The Austens #5) - Staci Hart Page 0,44

imagine why,” she teased. Her eyes were on mine, our gazes locked with such intensity, when she moved to step away, she bumped into one of the chairs and wobbled, tilting dangerously in my direction.

Without thinking, my hands shot out to steady her—one cupping her closest elbow and the other her closest hand. It was only a second, maybe less. But I felt the silk of her shirt, warmed by her skin. The lightness of her small hand in mine. The soft flesh of her palm and the long shape of her fingers. I could smell the crisp, quiet floral of her soap and see the silver flecks in her irises until they were swallowed up by her pupils.

“Oh!” she breathed as a blush smudged her cheeks, and she righted herself.

When she stepped back, my hands fell to my sides, my thumb stroking my palm where her hand had been.

“Excuse me,” came a sharp voice from the direction of my door.

Laney whipped around like we’d just been caught in flagrante, and I glanced around her to find my aunt in the doorway.

Catherine de Bourgh was stiff and starched as always, her nose with a permanent upward tilt and her eyes cold, assessing, and trained on Laney.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” she asked in such a way that promised a consequence if the correct answer wasn’t given.

“Not at all,” I said easily, and when she met my gaze, that cold exterior cracked, exposing warmth and care.

She smiled. “I trust we’re all well?”

“Very well, thank you, Catherine. May I introduce you to Laney Bennet, our team member from Wasted Words?”

Laney extended her hand with a lovely smile on her face. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. de Bourgh.”

Catherine’s chill was back with the crack of a whip, her icy eyes on Laney. “Bennet? Where are you from, girl?”

Laney’s smile fell with her hand. “I … Greenwich Village, ma’am.”

Catherine drew a breath that brought her chin and chest together. “You’re Rosemary Bennet’s child?”

It was an accusation disguised as a question.

To her credit, Laney looked more confused than intimidated. “Yes, I am. Do you know my mother?”

“I do,” she snapped. “If you’ll excuse us, I need to speak with my nephew.”

“Of course,” Laney said, arranging her face into what I would have called a smile if I’d never seen the real thing. And then she headed out of the room without looking back.

I moved back to my desk, puzzling over some context I’d missed..

The moment she was gone, Catherine approached my desk in a rush of fury and Chanel No. 5.

“A Bennet?” she hissed. “What in God’s name is that doing in my building?”

My eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“A Bennet. As in the Bennets who own Longbourne. The same Bennets that put Evelyn Bower in jail.”

Slowly, pieces clicked together. Evelyn Bower, Catherine’s oldest friend. I remembered the two women shoving Evelyn’s poor, shy daughter, Margaret, in my direction like a prize mare at a number of parties. We’d only endured the setup because neither of us was inclined to talk to anyone—we could silently sit and simultaneously fulfill our duty without saying a word. Catherine and Evelyn had been thick as thieves, running their empires since before such a thing was considered possible—Evelyn at Bower Bouquets and Catherine here at the firm. The news break when Evelyn had been arrested took over the news cycle for a week, even longer when she’d gone to trial.

Catherine operated her business by way of fear and intimidation, but when it came to those she loved, her love and sacrifice knew no bounds. She would do anything to protect those few who made it into her heart. And Evelyn Bower was one of the most important, which explained a thing or two. Just not everything.

“I don’t remember the Bennets having anything to do with Evelyn’s mismanagement of her company.”

She rested her palms on the surface of my desk and leaned in with a menacing look on her face. “Well, they did. And now you have one of them here, in my building, while Evelyn rots away in jail.”

I could have laughed—I very seriously doubted a millionaire was rotting anywhere, even prison.

“Aunt Catherine, I’m not sure what you’d have me do.” Or what I was willing to do. “Laney is the only marketing consultant at their shop, and the client requested she be a part of the team.” When she didn’t look swayed, I reminded her, “This is a five-million-dollar account. I cannot remove her