When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,129
softness of her hair. He studied the glossy tresses, the delicate curve of her ear, the angle of her jaw, the shape of her parted lips.
The heady scent of jasmine swirled around him, feminine and foreign all at once. He wondered what she would do if he kissed her. If he settled her on the expanse of his desk and worshipped her the way a goddess deserved to be worshipped.
“You can’t refuse because you’ve stolen something from me,” he managed to finally whisper, his voice hoarse.
Like his wits. Like his judgment.
“Then it seems we’re at an impasse.” Still, she hadn’t moved. “I’m not leaving here without the sapphire.”
“Bid on it like everyone else.” His mind was still sluggish.
“I will not buy what should never have been sold.”
King traced the edge of her bodice with the tip of his quill knife. “Things don’t end well for those who steal from me.” That wasn’t what he had wanted to say. But she had backed him into an uncharted corner where his calculated, curated control had long since slipped through his fingers like smoke.
“Again, we are at an impasse. Because I might say the same.”
Too late, he felt the edge of her blade pressing against his abdomen beneath his coat. From the pressure and the length of the steel, he knew it was far more substantial than a blade used to trim goose feathers. With a flick of her wrist, she could disembowel him where he stood.
If such a thing had been possible, King would have fallen in love right there.
“That’s the third,” she murmured.
“Third what?”
“The third assumption you’ve made. The first one was bold, the second overly simplistic, and this one potentially fatal. I never go anywhere without my weapons.” Her lips curled, and King’s thoughts scattered all over again. “You should have a care in the future,” she continued softly. “The next person to exploit an abundance of skirts may have far less…professional motivations than I.”
King gazed down at her, her mouth inches from his. “Noted.” His eyes did not leave hers.
The door to his study abruptly opened, the sounds of the crowd and the pianoforte intruding.
King didn’t move. Nor did he look away from Adrestia. “Get out,” he growled at whoever had entered.
“I beg your pardon, sir.” It was the voice of Elliot, his youngest footman. “The Duke of Rotham requires a moment of your time—”
“I don’t care.”
“But His Grace wishes—”
“I do not answer to dukes.” King finally lifted his gaze from Adrestia.
The striking blond boy looked suspiciously between King and Adrestia, though the pressure of her blade had vanished, the knife no doubt concealed neatly back in the abundance of her skirts. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Quite,” he assured his footman, lying through his teeth. I am far from all right.
“Do you— Blimey, that is Smithers’s key,” Elliot said, and King followed his distracted gaze to where the key still lay on the corner of the desk.
King swept the key from its resting place and tossed it to Elliot. “Yes. And you can tell Smithers that the next time he leaves his pockets unguarded, he can look for work elsewhere.”
The boy caught it effortlessly and regarded Adrestia with something akin to awe. “You bobbed Smithers? Blimey—”
“That will do, Elliot,” King chastened.
“Of course, sir,” the boy replied, not looking chastened at all. “What do you want me to tell the duke, sir? He’s arrived with an additional guest who does not possess an invitation,” he forged on. “Shall I have them escorted from the premises, or—”
“Jesus.” King cursed under his breath. This was the problem with entitled peers. Believing that they could do what they wished with impunity. Yet Rotham, with his bottomless coffers and voracious greed, was good for business on nights such as this.
“Sir?”
“Show the duke in. He has one minute to explain himself.” He tipped his head until his lips were a breath away from Adrestia’s ear. “But you and I are far from done.”
The boy vanished, and King stepped away from her. She retrieved her mask from the desk, swiftly donned it, and retreated to the shadow of the bookcases.
Elliot reappeared. “Sir, His Grace, the Duke of Rotham.”
“Another glorious event, King,” the portly duke announced as he stepped into the room, flapping his hands like a flightless bird. “The Hercules piece at the entrance is a marvel.” He stopped just inside the door, fingers of one hand tugging on the constricting cravat beneath his jowls, the other hand clutching his mask.