“Let us strike a bargain,” she suggested, seemingly unaffected by his threat.
Perhaps she did not think he would manhandle her. Certainly, the gentleman within him would not dare to commit such a sin. But as he watched her now, pique swelling within him, he could not help but to believe himself capable of it.
And worse, that he would savor the moment.
For a beat, he imagined himself rising from his chair, then closing the distance between them, hauling her from her seat, and sending her over his shoulder. His hands would settle upon her rump, and he would stride to the door while she protested. Perhaps she would squirm, attempting to escape him as she continued to refer to him as Mr. Arden, and he would be forced to deliver a swat to her bottom to make her still…
Damnation.He drained the remnants of his port. She was speaking, he realized, whilst he had been fantasizing about her removal from his home. And how his fantasy had become so suddenly sensual in nature, he did not wish to know.
“What do you say, sir?” she asked, watching him expectantly.
Her bloody bargain. He had drowned out the sound of her proposal with his own disgraceful thoughts.
Lucien cleared his throat, as irritated with himself as he was with Miss Montgomery. “Repeat the bargain, if you would, madam.”
“Of course.” Her smile widened knowingly. “I promise to call you ‘Arden,’ and in return, you promise to read my journal.”
Oh, she thought she was clever, his determined American thorn-in-the-side. But he was far craftier than she supposed. Far more skilled in the art of dismantling his opponents, tearing them apart, piece by piece. And there was no mistake here; this woman, lush and feminine and unassuming though she appeared, was very much not just his opponent, but perhaps even his rival. It had occurred to him the Home Office, whilst in the midst of making the Special League an official branch of Scotland Yard, may be looking for a replacement.
That perhaps H.E. Montgomery would usurp him, unthinkable though it was.
For he had only just begun.
“Let us drink to the bargain,” he said, smiling into her eyes as he refilled his glass, before raising it aloft.
For if he had to guess, he would wager Miss Hazel Elizabeth Montgomery did not imbibe often. Everything about her neat precise scrawl and rigid attention to detail, suggested a woman who very much needed to be in control of herself and others at all times. And she had failed to touch her port thus far.
But she lifted her glass now, because her pride would not allow otherwise, just as he had suspected.
“I will indeed drink to that, Arden.”
And then she did, swallowing nearly half the contents of her glass in one go, before suppressing her shudder, though her effort was obvious to him. He grinned at her. At long last, he had found the solution to his problem. He was going to make certain Miss Hazel Elizabeth Montgomery was thoroughly in her cups before the night was over.
Preferably, so soused she could not bear to rouse herself from bed—and for their all-important meeting with the Home Office—the next morning. No more abomination, no more bloody journal.
He raised his glass to his lips, taking a small measured sip, and damn it if his port didn’t taste just a bit like victory.
Chapter Three
Hazel groaned, openingher eyes slowly, before blinking the room around her into distinct objects rather than hazy blurs. Her mouth was dry and bitter. Her stomach heaved. Her head pounded. In all, she felt as if her body had been relentlessly trampled by an invading army. She felt…miserable. That was the word.
What had happened? Where was she? When would the world cease swaying as if she were on a ship?
Lord God, was she still aboard that infernal ship? Was not nine days at sea, handsome cabin on a White Star Line steamer aside, enough?
No. Remembrance descended upon her mind with the torpidity of a lame mare. She was in an elegant chamber at the Duke of Arden’s townhome, Lark House. Not to be confused with his many vast country holdings, of which there were no doubt legion. Because he was a duke, and he was icy and arrogant, and of course he owned more than one home—stately and extravagant though this one was.
She, meanwhile, had never called any place home since she’d been a girl. In truth, she had never possessed a home at all. Sometimes, not even a roof over her head or a dry place to sleep.
Her stomach rolled once more, much as it had when she’d been aboard the ship. Perhaps this was a lingering effect of her sea voyage, which had been merciless and punishing. She had cast up her accounts so many times during the arduous trip over stormy waters, she could still taste her own bile on her tongue even now.
Or was that her own bile she was tasting at this very moment? Had she vomited recently? The disgusting taste in her mouth certainly suggested she had. To corroborate, along came a murky reminiscence of the Duke of Arden procuring a chamber pot for her. Of his worried, yet still unbearably handsome, countenance, and of her clutching him before she lost her balance…
She had not vomited upon him, had she?
She searched her mind for the memory, for the answer, as she cringed and her stomach clenched yet again. Her mind was blank. What was this malady she suffered? Belated or prolonged seasickness? Perhaps the combination of her travel and her interactions with the condescending Duke of Arden had simply worn her out. There had been the seemingly endless sea voyage, followed by a seven-hour train ride from Liverpool to London; all more than enough to drive anyone to the edge of madness.
Surely those were the sole explanations for her failure to rise at dawn as was her customary habit. Those were the only reasons why she instead had awakened—good sweet God—with the sun bright and high on the other side of the window dressings.
