“Yes. You may… come find me if I am not downstairs.”
“That is improper,” I snapped, my patience dissolving like sugar in hot water.
His eye twitched.
“Stop it,” he muttered under his breath.
I blinked.“I beg yer pardon?”
I stood so quickly my chair scraped against the floor.
“Now you look here,” I said, jabbing a finger toward his fancy waistcoat.“I dinnae ken what ye are used tae in yer polished, perfumed city—but if ye ever act improper wae me, ye’ll be beaten tae a pulp. By meandma Uncle.”
His breath hitched.
Not fear.
Something else.
Something worse.
Then he made a sound.
A whine.
Soft. High.
Like a dog begging at the table.
My jaw dropped.
He did it again—
this time a pathetic little whimper.
Absolutely not.
I snatched my list off the table so fast the papers crinkled and bolted for the door.
I didn’t walk.
I ran.
My boots slapped the floorboards as I fled the dining room, heart hammering, breath turning sharp in my throat. There was something gravely unnatural about that man—something wrong beneath all that polish and London starch.
Something that prickled my skin and tightened the air when he looked at me.
A man should not whine or growl the way he did.
No creature should.
I clutched my list to my chest and didn’t stop until the corridor curved out of sight. Only then did I let myself breathe.
Aye.
I needed to keep my distance from him.
Chapter 11
