Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order #3) - Adele Clee Page 0,1
free from its queue. How would the wallflower fare when faced with a rakish rogue?
Fitchett’s eyes widened upon witnessing the outrageous spectacle. “Shall I have Randall bring your coat and cravat, sir?”
“Hell, no! The lady arrived without invitation and can damn well suffer the consequences.”
Having already expressed his opinion, Fitchett didn’t dare press the matter further. While the butler walked gracefully into the hall, Evan pasted a wolfish grin. One look at his open shirt and the wallflower’s confidence would wither and wilt.
Fitchett returned and announced the intruder.
Evan’s heart thumped against his ribs as he waited … and waited. Had Miss Hart caught a sudden case of nerves? He coughed impatiently into his fist.
“Just one moment,” the lady called from the hall.
Arrogance turned to annoyance.
But then Miss Hart strode into the room, and Evan found himself face-to-face with his insipid nemesis. The lady’s dark, intelligent gaze drifted over his open shirt as if it were perfectly natural to find a man in a state of dishabille.
“Forgive me, Mr Sloane. I’ve deposited my cloak and gloves on the floor in the hall for fear of dripping water onto your expensive Persian rug. I did not wish to burden your butler.”
Wet tendrils of chestnut brown hair clung to Miss Hart’s pale cheeks. Her tempting bow-shaped lips were a deathly shade of blue. The damp green dress hugged the gentle flare of her hips and—devil take it—the imp’s stocking feet poked out from beneath the hem.
Evan inhaled sharply. “Where are your boots, Miss Hart?”
“In the hall, sir.” She raised her dainty chin. “They’re in a dreadful state.”
How novel. Women usually took a drink and engaged in saucy banter before undressing.
“Lady Godiva rode naked through the streets of Coventry to make a point. I suppose I should be thankful your only concern is for the state of my rug.”
The lady’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Come now, Mr Sloane. You’ve seen your fair share of naked women. I doubt another would earn more than a fleeting glance. If my aim was to shock you, I would have drawn the pocket pistol from my thigh belt and fired at the chandelier.”
Evan’s chin almost hit the floor. Yet it wasn’t the outrageous comment that seized his attention, but the flicker of admiration in his chest.
“What, and fire your only lead ball? That would be a foolish move, would it not, Miss Hart?”
Her teasing smile seemed to mock him. “A lady does not walk the streets at night armed with only one weapon. That would be foolish, would it not?”
“Dangerously so.”
Evan observed Miss Hart’s keen gaze and the relaxed set of her shoulders. Weren’t wallflowers supposed to nibble their lips and refuse to make eye contact? They were dull and dim, yet Miss Hart’s blithe spirit illuminated the room like a bright ray of sunshine. Was it a facade? Or did this devil of a creature enjoy posing as the shy, awkward type? Indeed, Evan was so preoccupied with his study, he had forgotten to dismiss Fitchett.
“That will be all, Fitchett. See if a maid might dry the lady’s outdoor apparel. Have Turton prepare the carriage and show Miss Hart’s servants to the—”
“Their names are Buchanan and Mrs McCready,” Miss Hart interjected. “I’m sure you will come to admire their talents in the coming weeks.”
The coming weeks?
The misfit made it sound as if she had arrived with her portmanteau, ready to take residence.
“I doubt I shall have cause to make their acquaintance.”
Another mocking smile accompanied Miss Hart’s knowing look. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your sense of adventure. A grandson of Livingston Sloane should have found my comment intriguing, not dismissed it out of hand.”
Suspicion flared.
So, this did have something to do with his pirate heritage. And what could this busybody-come-wallflower-come-spinster—for she must be five-and-twenty—know about adventure?
“I do have one question.”
“Only one, sir? As an enquiry agent for the Order, I expected more.”
Cursed saints! Did she know his inside leg measurement too? “You said you removed your boots so as not to ruin my rug. How did you know it was Persian?”
“I called a week ago, but Fitchett said you were attending a wedding in Surrey. The wedding of your colleague Mr Cole. I asked if I might see the painting of Livingston Sloane, and he obliged.”
The soft-hearted devil. Fitchett would feel more than the whip of Evan’s tongue. Still, he admired Miss Hart’s honesty despite the mildly arrogant delivery.
“And why would you travel from Silver Street to Little Chelsea just to glance at a painting of a