“The drawing room, sir,” said Mr. Phelps. Charlotte stifled a giggle before the capable man servant turned to her. “May I take your cloak, miss?”
There was a chill in the air and in the foyer — and she was not an invited guest — so she declined.
Lord Jeffcoat nodded at his butler, then gestured for her to precede him across the foyer and through the double doors beside the painting that had irked her.
“Do you live alone here?” she asked, glancing around what could best be described as a forlorn room. It hardly helped when he turned up the lamps. Signs of neglect were everywhere. Not in cleanliness, of course. There wasn’t a trace of dust or a cobweb to be seen, but it was cheerless, nonetheless.
And it was cold. It seemed Lord Jeffcoat had not updated his home with the modern convenience of steam or gas heat, and the coal fire was unlit, appearing as if it hadn’t been used for ages.
“My father, the Earl of Bentley, resides here, too. He keeps to himself mostly.”
Charlotte supposed that was the answer. No female presence. No fresh flowers, nor a book on the table. In fact all the surfaces were bare, and the sofa and chairs had no pillows or warming blankets draped over the back. There wasn’t even a fern or a potted palm. She would vow the room was never used, but only cleaned by the staff.
“Will you sit?” he offered.
She did, on the hard sofa. When he went to sit in the chair farthest from her, she sighed.
“My lord, perhaps you could sit closer so we can go over the lease together. I don’t want you to scan it and sayayeornay. I want you to show me anything that might be considered dodgy or any language in it that might harm me and my family to the benefit of the landlord. I do think him to be an honest man, but it never hurts to investigate.”
Again, he hesitated but remained standing. “After Mr. Phelps brings in the tea, then I shall sit beside you.”
“Very well.” She could imagine how Lionel would have taken advantage of the situation to press her back against the sofa and kiss her. She realized it seemed cowardly and shifty to her now, that he had never once seen her in the light of day!
Silently, she observed the calm reserve of the viscount, even though he was standing before her a little awkwardly. For his part, he was staring resolutely at the door as if willing the butler to hurry. Apparently, not only wasn’t he going to sit until after Mr. Phelps’ reappearance, he wasn’t going to speak either. It was up to her to relieve the tension.
“I am sorry, my lord, to have put you in this position.”
“It is not I who is in a position,” he said a little sharply. “It is you. A position to lose your reputation, the likes of which could not be easily repaired.”
Charlotte couldn’t help an unladylike shrug. “I fail to see the harm.”
“That is a failing on your part.”
“Perhaps.” She nearly smiled, then realized he wasn’t teasing. He was finding fault with her, which she didn’t care for. Not one bit. “Again, I apologize for coming here directly. I should have stopped home for Delia.”
“This is most inappropriate,” he added.
Before she could defend herself again, the door opened.
Mr. Phelps had undoubtedly instructed tea to be made in record time. Luckily, with the large modern stoves kept on most of the day, water was always simmering in the kitchen.
“There we are,” the viscount said, as the butler placed the tray upon the low table in front of the sofa. Also, nestled between the cups and saucers and the teapot was a pretty china plate with some biscuits and wafers, which Charlotte appreciated as she had skipped lunch and was growing peckish.
“Shall I pour, sir?”
“No, Phelps. I’ll handle it,” the viscount said.
Removing her gloves and taking a biscuit, Charlotte munched it while the butler left and his lordship finally took a seat beside her. When he did, she caught his interesting scent of spice and rum again. As she’d discovered, there was something appealing about a man who smelled a little like gingerbread.
Admittedly, at that moment, alone in the room with him, seated close together, she felt a new awareness. Recalling the furtive kisses with Lionel, always hurried and fraught with danger of discovery, she realized how simple it would be for two people given the time and place — such as the next hour in a private drawing room — to utterly break the boundaries of acceptability and respectability.Hm!
The lease was folded on her lap, and she now handed the two sheets of paper to Lord Jeffcoat. He drew from his coat pocket a pair of blued-steel wire spectacles, which he slipped on his face, making sure they hooked upon his ears before he opened the folded sheets. She’d never seen him wearing glasses before. While he began to read, she observed him.
His face was an attractive one, to be sure. His mouth was different than Lionel’s. Much as she hated to admit it, Lionel had a smug way of pursing his lips while he was lost in his painting or sketching, and his mouth gave way to an air of petulance when the teacher gave the slightest criticism.
Lord Jeffcoat’s mouth had nothing petulant or puckering about it, merely determined, as if he were going to suss out any possible problem in the lease by hook or by crook. She ate another biscuit while he looked at the next page.
He had nice eyebrows, she decided, dark and finely shaped. And from the side, she could see his long lashes practically touching the oval glass in his spectacles. Most becoming. Then, while she was staring at his flat earlobe and his strong jawline, his head turned. He looked directly into her eyes with his cerulean blue ones, and something inside her shifted.
