“What are you doingin here?”
Julia startled at the smooth male voice behind her, but she didn’t turn, not at first. Instead, she took a steadying breath and calmed her racing heart. She had counted on being the only dinner guest who’d ventured away from the party, the only guest upstairs in the Earl of Marshfield’s private rooms on the third floor of the four-story house on Grosvenor Square.
What a nuisance!
“The question is,” she began, hoping to put the inquisitor on the defensive, “what areyoudoing here?”
Turning slowly and with dignity, as if she were not at all out of place, Julia encountered the well-heeled, impressive figure of the evening’s host, Lord Marshfield himself.
Blast it all!
At her question, his dark eyebrows rose above his coffee-colored eyes, practically to his hairline of thick, brown hair. Then he grinned, and she recalled his reputation. Certainly, his smile caused a flutter inside her, and she could imagine many a female had been won over by the same.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, with no outrage to his words but only amusement. Appearing entirely at ease with her presence in his bedchamber, he leaned against the door casing, arms folded, and appraised her from head to toe.
And back again!
“If you would truly like to know what I usually do in this particular room,” the earl said, “we can partake in a demonstration. By necessity, with a drawing room full of guests, it would have to be done in haste. A quickmixing of the gibletsbefore anyone realizes we’ve stolen away.”
Julia ought to be shocked, or perhaps even frightened, but the reputation of Lord Marshfield was well-known even to her, who had been in London for barely a year. He liked female flesh and had a great many public associations — and probably many more private ones with ladies of thebon ton.
However, he had never been reputed to have forced a woman. He simply lavished a certain brand of charm that made them willingly lift their skirts for him.
Thus, with her singular purpose having nothing to do with romance, she didn’t feel the least qualms about being alone in a room with him. Eventhisroom of rich brocades and silken bed covers, with a thick, colorful carpet she knew must be from Turkey or Persia, which would feel unimaginably soft under her bare toes.
He clearly had good taste in burnished mahogany furniture, including a tall armoire in which she’d already had more than a passing glance. She’d quickly discovered it was where he kept his valuables.
“My lord,” she said, remaining unruffled, a good trait to have when up to mischief. “My apologies. I thought you were an intruder, a rum dubber.”
“Me, a thief?” He lowered his arms.
“Obviously, I was mistaken, sir. Now that I know it is you, I shall return downstairs. Thehors-d'oeuvreswere excellent, by the way.”
Thinking to escape, Julia headed straight for him. He would have to step aside and let her pass or rudely cause a collision.
In a moment, she bumped against his tall, unyielding form and felt his hands grasp her upper arms while she looked steadily at his black silk cravat. Then she raised her eyes higher.
Zeus’s thighs but he was a handsome devil!
“Why are you in my room?” he asked her once again.
Julia sighed. “You’ve caught me, sir. I sought a token, such as a handkerchief with your monogram upon it to prove to my friends I was really at this esteemed dinner party.”
He frowned. “A husband hunter, trying to trap me?”
A frisson of disgust shivered down her spine. She nearly protested her innocence in that regard. It was, after all, a deplorable practice, designed to gain a fortune or a title while leaving the couple in heinous, hateful wedlock until death did them part.
On the other hand, if she allowed him to believe such, he would usher her from the room swiftly and surely, wanting nothing more to do with her.
“Perhaps,” she said softly. “You are, after all, a coveted morsel of a man.”
“Morsel of a...?” he trailed off. Then, to her surprise, he laughed.
“You are a bold chick-a-biddy, but not the first cunning baggage to try that particular sport.”
“Sport, sir?” She was well-aware he still had a firm grip upon her. In fact, his brown eyes were blazing a trail down her throat to the fashionably low décolletage of her borrowed gown. His gaze lingered on the upper swell of her breasts, before flicking back to her face.
“Husband hunting,” he said succinctly, “and with no weapon needed except your beauty.”
