Adrian echoed the words without a thought, and the woman nodded. He had known that the Earl was married, but he had not expected the man’s wife to be so young. Or so… breathtakingly beautiful.
“My name is Lady Bridget Carter, Countess of Winslow,” she said with authority. “I am afraid my husband is not at home to receive you, so you will have to do with me.”
His eyes slid down her barely clad form, drinking in the gentle swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, and—
“Your Grace!” the woman snapped, and Adrian’s eyes flew back up to hers.
The spark in her honey-brown eyes filled his loins with a yearning so intense he nearly forgot why he was there in the first place.
“You? You are the Countess of Winslow? Apologies, my lady,” Adrian offered, scoffing, unable to believe it. His deep voice slipped into a softer, yet still curt, tone. “However, it is pertinent that I see your husband immediately.”
“I believe I just informed you that my husband is not home. Do you doubt me, Your Grace?” the woman asked, crossing her arms. “If that is whoyouactually are.”
Adrian bristled, caught between lust and annoyance at her equally suspicious nature.
“And pray, who else would I be? Who else has your husband done ill by? Is there a list?” he questioned. He chortled again and rolled his eyes. “Not that I would be surprised.”
The lady’s eyes narrowed at him with distrust.
“I am ill at ease to confess he is my husband at the moment. But as I said, he is not here,” she stated coldly. “If you do not have anything further to say to me, please leave. Do you have any idea how late it is? How improper it is to enter into someone’s home like this?”
“Am I the only one who is indecent here?” he said with a smirk.
As she realized that she was not wearing more than a simple white shift, her hands moved toward her waist as if to cover herself. She stopped halfway through; her pink cheeks turning crimson as she lifted her head high, and dropped her arms back down to her side.
“Eve?” she called.
As if she had been expecting the call, a maid appeared at the top of the grand staircase, holding a silk, rose-hued robe. She brought it to her mistress with a quickness and helped her intoit.
Adrianalmostsmiled. Sharpandbeautiful? Delightful. If he were not so engaged with finding his brother’s killer, he might revisit the rakish ways of his youth and see how quickly he could soften that sharp tongue of hers.
“I do apologize for my ill timing,” he offered in a curt tone. “However, my business with your husband is of the most serious nature. I need to see him immediately. Do you know when he will be home?”
The woman’s angry expression softened a little as the flesh above her sculpted cheekbones flushed with the most delightful pink.
“I am afraid I do not,” she answered, only slightly less sharp than before.
“And I am afraid I cannot leave until I see your husband,” he said instead, keeping his tone firm. “I shall wait for him if I must.”
At that, her lips pressed into a thin line, and a faint color rose in her cheeks—not anger alone, but something closer to mortification. Adrian followed her gaze then, noticing the butler standing stiffly to one side of the hall, the maid lingering near the stairs, both pretending not to stare while very clearly doing exactly that.
Lady Winslow noticed too.
“Leave us,” Bridget ordered the butler and the maid, her eyes still locked on his.
“My lady—”
“Now.”
The butler bowed and retreated without another word, ushering the maid away with him. Only when they were gone did the woman release a breath, her shoulders drawing tight as though she had only just realized how exposed she truly was.
“I will not have my household gossiping about my husband’s affairs,” she said stiffly. “If you insist on speaking of such matters, then you will follow me.”
She turned sharply and strode down the hall without waiting for his agreement. Adrian felt a stir of desire as he matched her step with his own, drawing them closer. His nostrils flared, and his mouth watered as he caught her light scent of rose and honey.
She moved with purpose, spine straight despite her lack of proper attire, as though indignation alone armored her modesty. Her small, perfectly sculpted cheekbones curved into a sharp jawline and an almost pointed chin, which smoothed into a graceful neckline. Her button nose and full lips gave her depth, and the shape of her dark brow line created a perfect accent above her honey-brown eyes.
The Earl of Winslow, he knew by reputation, spent most of his time gambling and whoring—but Adrian had to wonder why a man would want to buy women when his wife was as striking as Bridget was.
