“Well, which is less proper, then?” he retorted, taking the heel of her walking shoe and pulling it off her foot. “Me touching yer foot, or ye wearing broken shoes?”
As utterly certain as she was that it was the former, Marjorie hesitated to answer. Men didn’t kneel in front of her, much less touch her legs and pull off her shoes. The sensations running up the back of her legs and along her spine had nothing to do with being captured, and everything to do with a man—this man—touching her.
He set the broken shoe aside and, still holding her ankle in one hand, dug into the sack with the other. The shoe he produced was old, the burgundy satin across the top frayed on one side. Despite that, the quality of it was obvious, from the faded gold embroidery around the ankle to the tight, precise stitches above the short heel. Lowering his gaze, he slipped it onto her foot.
“Well?” he prompted after a moment. “Do ye reckon ye can stomp aboot in that?”
This seemed to have much less to do with shoes than it did with him attempting to make her… trust him? To agree to marry him even after her vehement protests? Was that it? She flexed her toes. “A lady doesn’t stomp. But yes, it seems to fit rather well.”
He switched his hand to her other foot and replaced that shoe as well, moving far more slowly than she knew to be necessary. Marjorie didn’t like it, didn’t like the intimacy of it or the way his touch made her heart beat harder. This man was actively ruining her life; she should be trying to kick him in the face, not fighting against… lust or whatever it was that made her want to run her fingers through his disheveled hair.
Realizing she still sat there with one foot in his big hands and resting on his knee, she yanked free and firmly set both feet on the floor. “Don’t expect me to thank you, Maxton. My shoes and I would be perfectly fine if not for you.”
Reaching out, he tugged down the hem of her skirt. “I dunnae expect yer gratitude, yer gloriousness. I’m only glad my rough hands didnae scratch yer delicate skin.”
That prompted an unbidden image of his palms sliding up her bare legs. She shook herself, wondering if perhaps she had a fever. She had been driven about in the rain, after all. “I don’t find you at all amusing, sir. I have shoes to wear, but unless you mean to release me, I would prefer if you didn’t keep barging in here to harass me.”
He straightened, still looking up at her. “Och. I’m harassing ye now, am I? By agreeing to wed ye and save yer reputation?
“Andyourpurse, I would imagine,” she retorted. “I’ll risk being ruined, thank you very much.”
Maxton inclined his head. “If that’s how ye feel, I’ll leave ye to converse with yerself. It’ll give ye a taste of how a ruined lass spends her days, nae doubt. And hopefully ye’ll appreciate yer own loftiness more than I do.” Dropping her discarded shoes into the sack, he stood. “I brought ye someaught to read, but now I’m thinking it might be too plain fer ye. Best I leave ye to prance aboot on yer pedestal alone.”
Marjorie shot to her feet. “Something to read?” she repeated aloud, the prospect of another half-dozen hours of solitude abruptly pushing at her. Corresponding with the boy could occupy her for a few minutes, but it didn’t remove her from a locked room the way reading could.
He faced her again. “Aye. Someaught to read.”
“Let me have it, then.”
His sensuous lips curved just a little. “Nae.”
“No? Why not? You’ve already brought it here; you may as well give it to me.”
Gray eyes looked her up and down, making her feel hot—but on the inside, beneath her skin. “I reckon I’d like to hear ye ask me nicely,” he said after a moment, “being that we’re betrothed. And give me either a curtsy or a kiss. I’ll let ye choose which. This time.”
Oh, dear.More than likely he meant to embarrass her, to remind her just how little control she had over anything here. Still, she had to weigh the alternatives—a second evening of nothing but her own worried thoughts to keep her company, versus a show of respect, a curtsy, to a villain. Because she certainly wasn’t going to kiss him. Not for all the tea in China, or an original folio of Shakespeare’s.
Squaring her shoulders, Marjorie sank into a deep curtsy, her skirts flowing out around her. Heaven knew she’d had enough practice at it; the art of the curtsy had actually been a class at finishing school. Aside from that, previous to three months ago practically everyone she’d encountered in Mayfair as she ran errands for her employer had outranked her.
For a long moment after she lifted her head again, Maxton gazed at her. In all likelihood no one had ever curtsied to him before, so it was entirely possible that he was at a loss for words. She’d felt like that, the first time a man had bowed to her—and that had been all of seven weeks ago.
Visibly shaking himself, Maxton dug into the sack and produced a leather-bound tome, which he held out to her. “Very prettily done, lass,” he drawled. “I didnae think ye had it in ye.”
She took the book, being careful not to touch his fingers. “The entirety of what you know about me, sir, wouldn’t fill a teacup,” she returned, cradling the thing to her chest. “Now please leave. And knock before you come in, next time.”
“Aye, and I’ll dress in my finest and slick back my hair fer ye, too, shall I?” he retorted, amusement touching his voice again.
“Well, someone should do something with that lion’s mane of yours.”
He turned for the door, then stopped to swing around and look at her again, an unexpected grin touching his mouth. “A lion’s mane, is it?” he asked, dragging his fingers through the auburn mass. “I like the sound of that.”
Graeme pulled the door closed behind him, turning to lock it and then pocketing the key. Whatever he thought of her kind in general, Lady Marjorie had some spirit. Nor did she seem quite as empty-headed as he’d expected—after better than a day of captivity the duke’s sister should have been in hysterics, throwing things and demanding a maid to help her brush her hair.
And damn it all, she should have been grateful to have a viscount—any viscount—agree to marry her. He’d read stories where a kiss or an ill-timed laugh had ruined some English lady’s reputation. This one had gone missing for better than a day already. However lofty her friends, he doubted they’d overlook the damage. She could announce that she didn’t care, but he didn’t believe it. Not for a single bloody minute.
When Cowen appeared in front of him, he just barely kept from jumping. Damn it all. In a house stuffed with three unruly lads, he couldn’t afford to be lost in his own thoughts. “Send these to the cobbler,” he said, holding out the sack of shoes. “And a chicken fer payment; God knows he’ll nae be getting coin fer it.”
“Aye, m’laird. And ye wanted to know what yerbràthairsare up to. I couldnae say, but all three of the lads are in the billiards room.”
