The door opened.
Curse it. She should have told the maids to stay out.
But the shoes that stepped into her upside-down field of vision were not a maid’s shoes. The pair of long legs that appeared were encased in silk stockings and elegant dress shoes. Masculine. Expensive.
Her gaze travelled up.
And up.
And met a pair of bluish-green eyes staring down at her with an expression of absolute incredulity.
No.
The blood was definitely rushing to her head now, because her brain was suggesting that the man standing frozen in the doorway, watching her attempt a headstand in a nightgown tied into makeshift trousers, was none other than Sebastian.
She shrieked.
Her legs slipped.
She went down in an avalanche of pillows and tangled linen, landing in a graceless heap with her hair in her face.
By the time she clawed her way free, gasping, he had closed the door behind him.
He regarded her for a long moment. Then he smiled coolly.
“Madam wife.”
Chapter Eight
She extricatedherself from the blankets and stood up in the middle of the bed, her hair flying wildly about her, seized a pillow and hurled it in his direction, screeching, “Out! Get out this instant!”
He caught it with ease.
This was an evil dream. He was here. He truly was. In her bedroom.
Aghast, Viola rubbed her forehead. “What are you even doing in my house?”
He strolled forward to the bed and placed the pillow on it. “I beg to correct you. This ismyhouse.”
Viola’s legs gave way, and she dropped. “No, it’s not. It’s Nana’s house.”
He tugged on his cravat. “Correct. Which she then left to me. I have her testament if you’d like to verify the truth of my statement.”
“But you are supposed to be staying at the house in St James’s Square. It’s the family residence.”
“It’s under renovation.” He pulled off his cravat. “And presently entirely uninhabitable.”
Confound it! Why hadn’t the butler mentioned that? She scowled. “Very well. Then sleep in the guest room.” She waved a hand toward the door.
“There is no guest room.” He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it aside.
In truth, she had no notion at all of what this house looked like beyond her bedchamber. It was a modest townhouse, designed to offer comfort to a single dowager who wished to live apart yet close to her family while in London. When Viola had arrived, she had merely followed the maid, who had led her directly upstairs and into this room. She had not explored the house. There had been no time for it, and afterwards she had been far too flustered and agitated to care to ask for a tour.
“Then sleep in the drawing room. Surely, there must be a drawing room?”
“On that small, uncomfortable fauteuil, where my legs will be left dangling off?” He gave her a wolfish smile. “Not in your dreams. However, if you feel so strongly about us sharing a bed, I invite you to leave and sleep there instead.”
She was about to retort that he could go to blazes when she noticed his face was pale, drawn, and the lines around his mouth spoke of utter exhaustion. She shut her mouth.
