“In that case,” he asked wryly, “may we leave this—?”
“Priest hole.” Julia popped the latch and the panel swung open. “But of course.”
He ducked back into the dimly lit corridor, tugged on his waistcoat, and then shook out his limbs.
“Lady Julia.” He used his sternest voice. “Pulling gentlemen into dark places is rather frowned upon…not to mention perilous.”
Julia glanced to the ceiling. “A drastic measure I’ll be sure to use sparingly.”
“Sparingly?” He cocked an intimidating brow. “You will not use it at all.”
Julia’s grin was genuine. “You sound just like Markham, though perhaps more dangerous.” She pulled back her shoulders. “You needn’t worry. I know how to behave when I must. Besides, I have plans.”
“Plans?” he asked.
“Yes, plans. Plans which are”—she cast him a look—“at present, none of your affair. You are not my brother, Lord Bromton.” Her grin widened. “Not yet.”
She disappeared before he could respond.
His heart thumped in an inexplicable fashion. Of course, he needed all the help he could obtain… But what, exactly, was he getting into?
…
After a few cathartic tears, Katherine’s upset ceded to anger—fury she intended to aim at the architect of her current frustration. She stalked to her brother’s rooms, flung open his bedchamber door, and entered without knocking.
“Percival William Henry Stan— Good gracious, Markham!” She covered her face—but not before getting a noxious eye-full of her brother’s bare arse.
“That ought to teach you,” Markham said, chuckling. “A man deserves privatie.”
Ugh. Percival? A man? How could he be when just a few scant years before he’d been a boy running amok in short pants? Percy was a brother—a younger brother—but as a man, he simply didn’t count.
Yet he’d become a man, whether she liked it or not, hadn’t he? A man who held her future in his palm. Which was dreadfully unfair.
“Are you covered?” she asked.
“I’ve put on a banyan,” he replied. “Not that your modesty deserves respect, hell-bent on charging into bedchambers willy-nilly as you are.”
She dropped her hand. Markham leaned against the wall, arms folded. A boyish smirk twisted his lips. That omnipresent smirk. That’s what made her forget his consequence.
“I beg your pardon, your pompousness,” she said with an eye-roll for punctuation. “My gasp wasn’t modesty, but pure mortification.”
He laughed a throaty, mannish sort of laugh and dropped his arms. She scrutinized his banyan—fine fabric in a subdued color—a color that complemented his skin and auburn hair. Oh, dear. Markham had become a man, no mistaking. And a stylish one, too. At some point, he’d traded foppish flair for substance.
Bromton’s influence?
“Stop scowling,” he said. “Your provocation won’t work.”
She raised a brow. “It’s been working all day.”
His smirk deepened. “If you are referring to my performance in the billiards room, I assure you, I had method in that particular madness.”
“Percy.”
He shrugged. “I should think you’d thank me. You and Brom seemed desperate for a moment alone.”
“Oh, so now the marquess is Brom, is he?” She threw up her hands. “You are trying to provoke me, and ithasworked. Why did you make that infernal invitation? Bringing the marquess to Southford was thoughtless, reckless, and…” She tightened her lips. “Just. Plain. Mean.”
“Mean?” Astonishment wrinkled his brow. “Bromton may be a touch imperious, but I hardly think he deserves your—”
