The butler’s eyes go wide. “Oh! Your Highness, I am pleased to meet you.” He bends at the waist.
“And I you, Mr. Hartshire.”
His cheeks redden as he rises, lips curled in a bashful smile. What an adorable old man. Facing Thorne again, he says, “Your guests have been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”
Thorne pulls his head back. “My guests? They’re already here?”
“Yes, they arrived an hour ago.”
Thorne and I exchange a glance. We must be thinking the same thing—that I need to get changed before Monty sees me. It’s highly aggravating that I’m even considering catering to the whims of that insufferable man, but neither of us knows for certain how this game will work. Monty’s letter only saidDress pretty for me. If our courtship were a normal one, I’d assume he meant on our first formal date, but Monty Phillips has proven himself to be abnormal indeed. There’s a chance he could judge me by his next glance.
“Damn you, Monty,” Thorne mutters. “Where are they now?”
“Miss Phillips is taking tea in the back gardens while the other two are out riding.”
Thorne goes still beside me. “What do you mean, other two?”
“Mr. Phillips and Miss Dervins.”
“He brought Cosette?”
I shoot Thorne a sharp look, but he doesn’t meet my gaze. Who the hell is Cosette? Or…Miss Dervins, as the butler referred to her.
Mr. Hartshire shrinks down slightly. “Was she not an approved guest?”
Thorne releases a long sigh, then gives his butler a warm smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but Mr. Hartshire seems placated by it. “It’s fine. Please arrange for the retrieval of Her Highness’ things.”
Mr. Hartshire bows and leaves the foyer.
Thorne faces me. “Take off your shoes and stockings.”
Heat flushes up my neck. “Excuse me?”
“Take off your shoes and stockings. The stairs were freshly polished, and your skirts are going to drip every step of the way. The least you can do is remove those potential hazards. Otherwise, you’re going to slip, and I’m going to have to save you again.” His lips quirk into a devious grin. “You wouldn’t like that, now, would you?”
“Perhaps you simply need to stop concerning yourself with me, Mr. Blackwood.”
“Had I less concern for you and more for the carpets you’re about to drench, I’d make you take off every sodden article before setting a single foot upstairs.”
My breath catches. “You wouldn’t.”
“Not if you do as you’re told. We’re in my house, Miss Rose. If you won’t make this one compromise, I’ll carry you upstairs. And not in a nice way. I’ll throw you over my shoulder like a sack of flour.”
My heart tumbles at the visuals he conjures. Even though he said it as a threat, I don’t find the concept entirely unpleasant. I’ve never been thrown over a man’s shoulder, and the fact that Thorne thinks he can carry me up a flight of stairs with such ease almost makes me want to dare him to try. But I’ve already suffered enough humiliation in his presence today. “Fine, but at least turn around.”
“So I don’t see your bare ankles?” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “It’s a little late for modesty between us, don’t you think?”
Despite his words, he turns away. I’m grateful for that, for I can’t bear to have him look at me now. Not withthat one dreamhaunting my thoughts and mingling with my fantasy of being carried by him. A traitorous thrill heats my core.
Keeping my head low to hide my reddened cheeks, I take a seat on the bottom step and set about removing my shoes and stockings. Minka scampers from wherever she’d been investigating to rub against the balusters beside me. “I like it here,” she says. “Or maybe I just like being a cat.”
I huff a laugh. She does seem to be enjoying herself, even though the shift has made her a less adequate lady’s maid, as evidenced by how she makes no effort to aid my undressing. Not that I need her help. It also fills me with a sense of secondhand guilt. She’s been kept from her unseelie form by my parents due to a single mistake. It seems a bit cruel.
“Finished?” Thorne asks over his shoulder.
I ball my stockings and stuff them into my shoes, then rise to my feet. As I open my mouth to answer, a figure enters the foyer. She appears to be a few years my junior with a pretty, round face, curly light-brown hair, and a slender figure. Her smile stretches wide as she locks eyes with Thorne. She lets out an excited squeal and rushes toward him.
“Angie,” Thorne says as she throws her arms around his waist. His expression holds surprise at first, but soon it warms into a genuine grin. He returns her hug with an ease I find startling.
