The man’s irritated expression did not alter. “Wait here,” he said and closed the door in Lindsay’s face.
Five full minutes passed before he returned.
“The master says ye’re to come in,” the man muttered, opening the door wide this time and gesturing for Lindsay to precede him into the narrow stairwell, before closing and bolting the door shut behind him, then locking it with a key from a heavy ring at his waist.
The stairwell was dank and shadowy, the weak light trickling down from a window further up quite inadequate to the task of illuminating the worn, uneven steps. Having secured the door, Cruikshank’s servant shoved rudely past Lindsay, taking the lead again. “Follow me.”
They ascended three full flights before they finally stopped at another door. The servant took out his ring of keys again to unlock it. It seemed that Hector Cruikshank liked to be secure—this lock was a stout one, the key sizeable. There was some effort needed to turn it and a bit of shoulder heft required to fully open the thick wooden door, but finally it was done, and the servant waved an arm to indicate that Lindsay should lead the way this time.
Though it was still aforenoon, candles glowed in the wall sconces of the hall Lindsay stepped into, cheap tallow ones that gave off a fatty reek. The ancient ceiling was stained brown with the burned-off grease of decades of such illumination.
“Ye’ve tae wait in the parlour,” the servant muttered. He pointed at a door. “He’s got somebody in the study wi’ him just now.”
Lindsay nodded his agreement and strolled into the parlour.
It was an unlovely room, filled with dark wooden furniture from the last century, unsoftened by cushions or coverings. Lindsay selected the least uncomfortable-looking chair and settled back to wait.
A tall, narrow mahogany clock measured Lindsay’s wait with aggravatingly steadytocks. It looked like nothing so much as a coffin leaning against the parlour wall. Lindsay half-expected the front of the case to creak open and a dusty skeleton to fall out.
Five minutes passed, then five more.
Then five more still.
Irritated, Lindsay was considering going in search of Cruikshank’s surly manservant when the door finally opened again.
He rose fluidly to his feet, impatient to be conducted to Cruikshank’s study, only to hesitate when he realised that the man standing in the doorway was neither the manservant nor the elderly Cruikshank himself.
At first, all Lindsay could make out of the man was his outline—tall and broad across the shoulders—and his heady, compelling scent. As Lindsay inhaled that scent, his pulse began to quicken and the strangest sensation overcame him, as though he might black out. Discreetly, he rested his hand on the back of a chair to steady himself.
The man stepped out of the gloom then, fully entering the parlour. He was dressed quite severely, all in black, some rolled-up papers lodged under one arm. All in all, he would have cut quite a grim figure were it not for his strikingly handsome face. His eyes were bright with intelligence, his chin strong and square, and his beautifully carved mouth drew Lindsay’s helpless gaze.
Such a generous, sensual mouth, even with the fine lips pressed together in what looked rather like a disapproving line.
That thought finally roused Lindsay from his daze. Whywasthe man regarding him with that wary and faintly censorious expression? It was only then that Lindsay remembered what he’d chosen to wear to his interview with Cruikshank.
Stifling a groan, he glanced down at his pale pink stockings and high-heeled shoes, experiencing a moment’s regret over his sartorial choices. A man like this, soberly attired and serious-seeming, would no doubt find Lindsay’s clothing distasteful, and probably a sign of a frivolous nature—if not worse.
Feigning unconcern, Lindsay stepped forward to greet the newcomer. “Good day to you, sir.” He managed to bow with casual elegance and was distantly amazed at how collected he sounded, quite as though this were any ordinary meeting. As though his whole body was not thrumming like a tuning fork in the presence of this fascinating stranger. “Lindsay Somerville, at your service.”
The man blinked once, the only sign he gave of any discomposure, before doffing his hat and offering his hand to Lindsay. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Somerville.” His voice was deep, though he spoke quite quietly. “Drew Nicol.”
As Nicol swept his hat off, Lindsay saw that his hair was the pale gold of barley. Somehow, Lindsay hadn’t expected it to be so fair. Even less had he expected to be gripped by a sudden, inexplicable desire to touch that hair. To thread his fingers into the pale strands and tug the serious, handsome face towards his own. To kiss the unsmiling mouth.
Abruptly, he realised that Nicol was still holding his hand out, waiting for Lindsay to shake it. Lindsay quickly stepped forward to take Nicol’s in a firm grasp. The man’s scent was even better up close. Lindsay wanted to take great gulps of it and had to force himself to breathe normally.
His greedy gaze travelled over Nicol. He’d noticed the man’s beauty immediately, but now he saw Nicol’s face had character too, stubbornness in the set of that firm jaw and fierce intelligence in the blue—no,grey-blue—eyes. The initial hint of censure Lindsay had detected in Nicol’s gaze still lingered there, but there was something else too—in his eyes and in his scent—a sharp note of interest that roused Lindsay’s wolf to preen and stalk within him, sleek and vain, even as his human heart pounded with nerves.
For a long, almost stifling moment their tangled gazes held, and then Nicol seemed to realise he was staring. Mortification burned briefly in his eyes before his gaze shuttered and he quickly drew his hand back, stepping past Lindsay to move further into the parlour. Lindsay still felt the ghost of his touch though, a lingering physical memory of the press of Nicol’s fingers and palm against his own. Closing his hand into a loose fist at his side, he trapped the feeling there, ignoring the baying hound inside him that demanded he take hold of Drew Nicol’s arm and pull his body up against Lindsay’s. His wolf might demand that he act on instinct, but he was in his human form now, and in the human world this sort of attraction could spill into violence as easily as lust. There were many men who could not admit, even to themselves, what such feelings meant.
Lindsay watched Nicol cross the floor of the parlour and pause in front of the only decoration the room boasted: a painting of an overflowing bowl of fruit beside a wine flagon. The colours in the painting were so muted by decades of candle grease that everything was now some shade of drab brown, as though the fruit was going slowly bad. Once a depiction of riotous plenty, now it was a study in neglect—and Nicol was staring at it so hard you’d have thought it contained the secrets of the universe.
Into the silence, Lindsay said, “What a singularly ugly painting.” When Nicol didn’t immediately respond, he added, “Still, it matches the rest of the furnishings at least.”
Nicol finally turned at that, his composure apparently restored. “We all have our own ideas of good taste,” he replied mildly, not meeting Lindsay’s gaze.
For some reason, that bothered Lindsay. He wanted Nicol tolookat him, which was an entirely lowering discovery. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d given a fig about such a thing.
“It’s true that taste is a very individual thing,” Lindsay agreed. “For example, as you can see, I am vastly fond of colour.” He gestured at his own clothing with a flourish of his arms, virtually forcing Nicol to look at him again.
