“Of course this is your home,” she said agreeably. “You may sleep wherever you like. Perhaps in the stables, even.”
She was mocking him, the daring minx.
He clenched his jaw. “You are astonishingly brazen, madam.”
“I’ve been told so on more than one occasion.”
He didn’t doubt that.
“The lack of contrition in your voice suggests you don’t care.”
She winked and leaned toward him as if she were imparting a delicate secret. “You are correct, Your Graceship.”
She smelled so alluring. And her green eyes were dancing with amusement. He didn’t know which he wanted to do more—argue with Miss Fox, or kiss her.
Neither was the best course of action, naturally.
“Your Grace,” he corrected coolly instead, though he was fairly certain that Miss Fox was more than aware that her form of address was wrong.
She bent and scooped the seated dog into her arms while Lion made every effort to avoid looking at her luscious breasts swaying beneath her nightgown. Dandy licked her cheek adoringly.
“That is what I said,” she informed him without a hint of humility. “Now, if you will excuse us, I fear all this travel has made me quite exhausted. Dandy and I must return to our room.”
She was dismissing him? And carrying away that blasted dog to once more roost in one of his beds?
“Dogs don’t roost, Your Graceship,” the hoyden called over her shoulder. “They aren’t chickens, you know.”
Christ, had he spoken aloud? Lion watched her leave the library, the subtle movement of her hips mesmerizing him as he rubbed his jaw.
“Your Graceship,” he muttered to himself.
It damned well better stop snowing by the morning.
The next morning,Addy was sneaking from the breakfast room bearing a napkin laden with bacon, kippers, and a poached egg for Dandy when a frigid voice stayed her.
“Is there a reason you are carrying a sack of food away from the breakfast room, Miss Fox?”
With a sigh, she stopped and spun about to find the Duke of Marchingham looming, dressed this morning in tweed and looking like the epitome of a handsome English country gentleman, quite as if he had stepped out of the pages of a monthly fashion publication. Pity his exceptional looks and form were wasted upon such a wretched man.
She held the napkin behind her back and forced her brightest smile. “Good morning to you as well, Your Grace. I’m afraid you must be mistaken. I haven’t a sack of food at all.”
“Amakeshiftsack, then,” he corrected, enunciating his words in a way that made them sound like a caress, “composed of a napkin stuffed with kippers and a poached egg.”
Well, drat. Apparently, the duke had been somehow watching her without her notice. She had taken great care. The dining room had been empty, save herself and Aunt Pearl, whom she had left behind to finish her own breakfast.
Her chin went up, and she held his stare with a challenge of her own. “You forgot the bacon.”
“You might have better enjoyed your spoils at the table. I didn’t realize it was an American custom to drag table scraps away like a wild dog.”
Had she thought him wretched? The word seemed far too tame. The Duke of Marchingham was positively vile. But she was determined to meet his forbidding ice with the sunniest of dispositions.
Addy forced a smile. “Yes, it is indeed an American custom. We also enjoy taking leisurely strolls in thunderstorms and wearing our drawers on our heads instead of hats.”
Ruddy color flared on his high cheekbones. “Charming little eccentricities, to be sure. Tell me, do you ordinarily feed your hound from the breakfast table?”
“No, of course not. I have a special meal prepared for her.” The napkin was yet held like a guilty secret behind her back, even though Marchingham was more than aware of its presence and what she intended to do with it.
“What manner of special meal?”
