He grasped a knife and, with a wicked spin, began to dice the onion with surgical precision. “I have lived by myself for a long time, so I have learned to take care of myself.”
“You are not a gentleman then,” she said.
“I am,” he corrected while scooping the onions and dropping them into a pan. “But I imagine you think a gentleman would never choose to take care of himself. For me, necessity was the mother of invention. I had no choice but to gain a set of skills many lords see as below them.”
“Cooking included,” she echoed, still stunned at seeing him command a kitchen.
“You’ll probably faint again when I sew a hem,” he snorted while covering the pot and sliding it into the brick oven built into the chimney.
“Can you?” She watched him warily.
“I suppose you’ll have to wait and see,” he said while peeling a few potatoes, dressing them with oil, salt, and rosemary before adding them into the oven.
Ellie felt her heart flutter a little as he washed his hands again. “Who are you? You still have not told me your name, despite knowing mine.”
He leaned on the wall while drying his hands with a slip of cloth. “Is it so important?”
“It is,” she replied, “if we are to be here for a long time. I cannot be calling youHadesfor the rest of the time we are—”
A peal of laughter punched its way out of his gut as he cocked a boot up to the wall. Without reason, Ellie’s face flamed.
“You think I am the lord of the underworld, little mouse?” He chortled. “Don’t be mistaken, I appreciate the sentiment. From your lips to God's ears, sweet.”
She picked apart his words. “Why would you want to be the god of the underworld?”
He crossed the kitchen into the sitting room, stopped a foot from her as his hand cupped her chin, and his fingers skimmed over her bottom lip.
Shocks danced along the delicate skin, and before she could regain her senses, he replied, “Because at the moment, I am only the ferryman, sweet. I want to sit on the throne.”
Shedidshiver this time. “You are a gentleman crook.”
“Such crude words,” he laughed. “I feel that I should be insulted. I am an aristocrat and respected businessman, and while I may have dabbled in the other side of the law, I keep my nose clean.”
“Your argument makes no sense,” she contested him. “If you are not really in the underworld, why do you want to be the king of it. Logic would dictate that to be so, you would have to participate in all the nefarious activities those… those blackguards continue to perpetuate. Would that not complicate your legitimate business?”
His face went stony, and the dim evening light glazed the harsh planes of his face. “There are many convoluted issues that underline this matter, Evelina. It is not as simple as it sounds.”
“Then explain it to me,” she challenged him.
The chit is taunting me.
His jaw tautened. Oh, he saw through her act: she was irritating him on purpose—and doing a damn good job of it. If she thought her ploy was enough to ward him off, she had better think again.
He tried to focus on his strategy. It was a bit difficult, given that his eyes were straying to her full, rosy lips, pursed with irritation; the inviting divot in the center of her bottom begged for his soothing kiss—or punishing bite.
“No.”
“No!” She gaped. “Why not?”
“Because I have the power, and I like to see you angry,” he teased.
She crossed her arms and shot daggers at him. “You—you—”
“Bounder, nodcock, by-blow,” Dorian offered. “How about rakehell, wiseacre, scapegrace. Take your pick.”
Her face went mottled. “You’re…. you’re a—”
Leaning in, Dorian goaded her, “Let it out, little mouse.”
