A third footman nodded and led her across the expansive black-and-white checkered marble floor. Though French baby angels soared above her head, the house below was English byway of the unapologetically eccentric. If a house could take on the character of its owner, the Roost had.
As she traversed one dark, winding corridor after another—the Roost held not a single straight line that she had ever observed—it was the collection of Venetian Carnevale masks that caught the eye with their exuberant, sometimes grotesque beauty. Then it was down another dimly lit corridor lined with masks that had come from the continent of Africa. These were less colorful, but no less imaginative. Another corridor was filled with Noh masks from Japan with their exquisite, lifelike renderings meant for the stage. While Sir Abstrupus had a penchant for the unusual and far-flung, this was more than a collection of the exotic. It was driven by curiosity, she’d decided. A curiosity to view the world beyond England’s shores and understand how everyone was connected.
The footman stopped at the door of the study, and her earlier suspicion grew roots. The house was quiet—too quiet.
Her doubts were confirmed when the footman opened the door. Across the white-oak parquet floor littered with Aubusson rugs and settees and ottomans and tables, which were themselves littered with vases and figurines and general bibelot from every corner of the planet, she observed two men seated in leather armchairs beside the hearth. One sat with a plaid blanket across his lap, a glass of one tonic or another lifted to his mouth; the other slouched, his legs sprawled before him, his gaze averted toward the fire, presenting her with no greeting but rather the strong line of his profile—the straight nose; the ridge of cheekbone; the firm press of lips; the angled line of jaw and chin.
A profile Artemis didn’t need to see to know, for it was etched into memory.
The full force of her situation crashed through her.
Only she, Sir Abstrupus, and Lord Branwell Mallory would be attending this supper party.
“You’re late.”
Only as Artemis’s gaze startled toward Sir Abstrupus did she realize she’d been staring at Lord Branwell.
Well, what little he offered of himself.
She met her host’s sharp blue eyes directly—it didn’t do to be indirect with Sir Abstrupus—and cleared her throat. “I wasn’t aware of the intimacy of the gathering.”
“Meaning?” Questions were ever subtle demands when issued from Sir Abstrupus’s mouth.
Her sense of equilibrium returned. Verbal sparring was familiar footing, at least. “Meaning, I wasn’t aware my lateness would have been of note or particular interest.”
From the edge of her eye, she saw Lord Branwell hadn’t looked away from the fire roaring in the hearth. Sir Abstrupus kept the fires of the Roost blazing year-round. Artemis couldn’t begrudge him that. She supposed if she made it to ninety years and counting, she would have fires roaring in every hearth, too.
Even in August.
Another observation came from the edge of her eye. Lord Branwell’s posture … It wassurly.
Here was a man who fit the growlyLady Artemisshe’d received in the woods.
Sir Abstrupus lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. “Have you no greeting for our guest, Lord Branwell?”
Anticipation flittered through Artemis, had her heart flipping over, and her stomach tumbling. Bathsheba gave a small whine, ever sensitive to her mistress’s moods.
One slow beat of time loped past—then another.
Artemis waited, her hands curled at her sides.
Though Lord Branwell sat in this room, he didn’t seem to be here at all. Rather, he appeared to be in a world of his own—one he didn’t wish to share.
Sir Abstrupus gave a pointed clearing of his throat.
Lord Branwell sighed.
Seconds ticked along as time stretched to its breaking point. Artemis’s fingernails dug into her palms. At last, he shifted in his chair and turned to fully face her, and she suppressed a gasp.
Except she hadn’t suppressed the gasp—not entirely.
His eyes narrowed into golden slits. She remembered that about his eyes. They were golden. “My lady.”
Again, the growl.
How that growl did, indeed, fit the man before her.
This wasn’t the Lord Branwell Mallory of ten years ago.
