The Marquess Who Loved Me - By Sara Ramsey Page 0,28
before any of them discovered whether Nick would have pushed him aside. “Lady Folkestone,” Nick said. “What a delightful surprise.”
“Lovely to see you, I’m sure,” she said. “Welcome to Folkestone House.”
He bowed, a match for her insincerity. “Don’t say you’ve decided to return to London and abandon your guests?”
She knew there was only one ‘guest’ he cared about — and it had more to do with revenge than hospitality. “I did think that today was the only day I might get away.”
His eyes narrowed at her reference to the reprieve she’d won from him. “And what business might bring you to the capital?”
“Oh, you know how flighty I can be,” she said, waving a hand. “One never knows when my attention might turn to something else.”
It was a dangerous game. Nick was no longer the kind, gracious boy who would let her tease him, but she wasn’t ready for him to know that she sought a different means of repaying him. He took the bait, though — she’d known from his clenched jaw and brooding, hooded eyes that he would be quick to anger.
And even quicker to action. “Get out,” he growled at the footman, who still wheezed near the door. The man squeaked his agreement and left without even checking to make sure that Ellie would be safe.
She really needed to start hiring staff who were capable of guarding her, not just men who might look good draped in classical linen.
Beyond the door, she saw Lucia. But her maid was too busy hissing accusations at an extremely uncomfortable Marcus to save her. And then it was too late — Nick slammed the door and turned the key in the lock, leaving them alone to confront each other.
“We really must stop meeting like this,” she said. “I cannot afford to fix any broken door frames.”
Nick snorted. “This house seems as sturdy as any I’ve seen. Unless you introduced dry rot as part of your spending campaign?”
“Would that I had thought of that,” Ellie retorted. “What are you doing here, Nick?”
“It’s my house.”
She’d thought she hated his coldness — but smugness was worse. “Ah, how silly of me to forget. Will you be staying here tonight, then?”
She knew she sounded too expectant. He didn’t even bother to answer her question. “Tell me what you were doing here,” he demanded.
“I owe you money, not explanations, my lord,” she said, giving his title all the venom she possessed. “Or anyway, you’ve shown no desire for them.”
He leaned against the door and let his eyes wander over her in a callous, dismissive way. “You can satisfy me in many ways, Ellie my love — and I look forward to discovering even more of them. But I find your explanations wholly uninteresting.”
“Your loss,” she said, shrugging with a nonchalance her heart didn’t feel. “You aren’t the first Claiborne in this house to believe I should be seen and not heard.”
Mentioning Charles was a spark to a powder keg. Nick gritted his teeth. “I’m not my cousin.”
“No, you’re not,” she agreed. “Charles was the arrogant, annoying prig who married me. You are the arrogant, annoying prig who bought me. Such a difference, that.”
She expected an explosion, but Nick just smiled. “I’ll give you arrogant and annoying. But I’m no prig.”
“No?”
“No.” He strode toward her. She held still, not willing to give up ground, and he reached her in four steps. “A prig would be a stickler for what’s proper.”
He slid a hand to her waist and pulled her close, close enough to whisper in her ear. “A prig would never let a tradesman such as myself soil your pretty skin with my dirty hands.”
His other hand stroked her hair, petting her like a prize he’d won at a backwater fair. His voice turned to a growl. “A prig would have known, from the first day that he saw you in that far-off country field, that a lady of your class would never have a man from mine.”
She opened her mouth to deny it, but his hand clasped over her mouth — not the tender shushing of a child, but a desperate, overpowering attempt to stop her voice. “I’m not a gentleman. I might have been, once, until you showed me what I really am. So say those words again, my love. Call me a peasant. Hold your nose at how I reek of the shop. Say how much I embarrass you. I don’t care anymore — it’s all true. But never, ever compare me to Charles.”