Far from sparse, Wayland’s office featured a cozy fireplace surrounded by massive dark green leather chairs, with a drink cart against the wall between the door and the hearth. The opposite end featured an oversized mahogany desk. It was obvious he no longer made frequent use of the room. Matching empty shelves that surely once held ledgers lined one wall, and the desk was entirely bereft of paperwork.
At Juliet’s urging, I helped myself to the drink tray and poured a finger of the fine scotch. But before I could settle into one of the chairs to enjoy the relief of solitude and watch the dying embers until guilt at abandoning my family to humiliation and ruin overtook me, a sharp knock sounded.
I spun to face the door. The itchy sensation of trespassing lingered low on my spine even though I had been invited.
When the ornately carved wood swung open without allowing time for a response, breath abandoned my body in a rush leaving me lightheaded and fluttery.
The man was… lovely. There was no other word for it. Tall with a long, lean frame that was perfectly muscled. In the firelight, his hair shone a dark auburn. It was styled, but a few pieces escaped from the pomade to brush his forehead. A sharp, ruddy complected jaw with the barest hint of growth was visible below his domino. An impossibly soft and full lower lip was topped by a thinner but still enticing upper lip. But his eyes… They were a shade even I could not name. Not green, not blue,but so perfectly matched—enhanced—by his mask. The effect was breathtaking.
And he was within grabbing distance. I could catch his arm, pull him to me, and drag his lips to mine. I hadn’t had such a visceral reaction to a man since I was a green boy. When his throat bobbed, it took everything inside me to hold back a groan.
“Your Grace,” he said in a musical, honeyed tenor. So distracted was I, by thoughts of licking that throat, that it was a full beat before I made the connection.
He knew me.
That wasn’t surprising. Most of thetonknew of me. But I didn’t know him, and that was a travesty I could not abide.
“I’m afraid you have me at a loss, Lord…” My voice was higher pitched than I’d like, shrill.
The edge of his lip quirked up, and his gaze left mine, finding the drink in his hand. He raised the glass and took a sip, and I caught my first sight of his hands. Long, elegant fingers ending in blunt tips with well-manicured nails caressed the glass. The back of that hand was wiry—but strong. Christ, what could a man do with hands like that?
The glass slipped away, leaving a droplet behind on his burnished copper lip. He was trying to kill me—it was the only explanation.
“Mister,” he replied.
“Mister?” I repeated dimly.
A soft chuckle left him as he stepped back against the door, leaning against it just to fluster me further. “I do not know if I should be insulted that you find me so forgettable, or pleased that you’ve managed to forget what an arse I made of myself.”
“I beg your pardon.” The words escaped as one in a disgruntled rush.
“We’ve met.”
“Surely not. I would remember.”
“Apparently not,” he retorted before imbibing another sip. His impossible eyes were bright, amused when they met mine over the glass.
Usually, I loathed that, when people poked bemused fun at my generally flustered nature. But on him… it didn’t read as him laughing at me but more as though he found the situation diverting.
More concerning though, I’d met this man, this perfect specimen, and forgotten entirely.How? And why? And how?It should not have been possible.
“Remind me?”
He tipped back the last of his drink before inhaling through his teeth. “I don’t think I will. How often in life are you gifted with a second first impression?” There was something in his tone—a playful tease?
“I assure you, you make an exceptional second impression. Certainly enough to overshadow any forgotten first.” The statement was bolder than I usually would have allowed but still held a hint of plausible deniability.
With a thoughtful hum he pressed off the door and strode confidently to the drink cart where he helped himself to a rather fine scotch with ease.
“How are we to converse if I don’t know your name?” I added.
“We seem to be doing well enough at present.” He stepped over to one of the chairs and turned it to face the other before the fire. Wordlessly, he sat, legs stretched out in front of him. Those legs should have been too long to settle casually, but he managed it gracefully, with one straightened before him, and the other crossed over at the ankle. “Make yourself comfortable,” he added, gesturing toward the other chair with one elegant hand.
Eagerly, I clambered to sit before realizing I was angled toward the fire and not this man. With an awkward, rockingshuffle and a harsh scraping sound, I turned the chair to face him. It was entirely the opposite of his confident maneuver and I felt a flush curling up my neck.
“I really must insist on a name.”
His head cocked to the side with a secret smile. “You are not used to being denied, are you?”
