Page 24
An impossibly tall gentleman wearing a navy-blue triple caped greatcoat and an Oxonian hat stared down at her. A smile fashioned to liquify steel quirked up one side of his mouth in a sun-browned face.
She followed the narrow, buckled flesh lashing from his ear to his striking jaw and lower with her gaze. The scar should’ve detracted from his good looks, but in a peculiar way, the blemish enhanced his attractiveness. One side of his face was aristocratic perfection and the other marred by puckered flesh.
Above all, he exuded effortless elegance.
A crestless gleaming black coach and four stood in the circular drive, and she puzzled her brow.
Who was he?
He hadn’t answered her initial query, and so, tilting her head back, she met his glittering brown gaze brimming with undisguised merriment.
The feeling of having slipped into a pool of warm, sweet chocolate engulfed her.
Good Lord.
Irrationally affected by this stranger, Mercy cleared her throat. Probably just another debt collector, albeit an unusually young and attractive one.
Not that she was making a mental note of his features.
Well-bred ladies of questionable origins were not permitted such luxuries.
He wasn’t from Rochester, she was reasonably confident. She stifled the groan which threatened. That could only mean news of Lieutenant Masterson’s death had spread, and he owed additional debts.
Well, this handsome chap with his fancy coach would have to wait—just like all of the others.
“If you’re here to collect a debt of Lieutenant Masterson, you have wasted your time. You’ll have to take the matter up with either his solicitor, Joseph Bralen, Esquire, or the estate’s newly appointed guardian, Lord Ronan Brockman.”
She was quite proud she’d managed to modulate her tone and to hide her disdain of his lordship. Perchance using the guardian’s honorific would intimidate this dashing fellow a little, and he’d quietly take his leave.
Or not.
Several awkward seconds passed, and with each, her tension grew at the delay of her departure. Only a crow’s harsh cawing in the distance interrupted the weighty silence.
He continued to gaze at her with a hint of amusement in his warm eyes and crooked, sideways smile. And he still hadn’t uttered a syllable.
Mayhap he was a bit off in the head.
Not a debt collector but perhaps lost?
It mattered not. Mercy needed to be on her way at once. She’d leave through the kitchen instead.
“I bid you a good day.” With a crisp nod, she made to shut the door, but he had the audacity to shove his booted foot in the gap.
Why the rude…
Mercy mentally searched for a word that wouldn’t make Mrs. Shepherd cringe and which wouldn’t offend the Almighty. She settled on pinhead—most disappointing and inadequate for her current vexation.
Rude, codpate pinhead.
Well, that assuredly wasn’t nearly as satisfactory as fat-headed arse or brazen bloody bugger.
A hot flush stole up her neck for even thinking such spiteful and offensive thoughts.
“You are going out?” the stranger inquired in a honey-smooth, slightly husky tone that nearly unhinged her knees.
Arching a starchy brow, she bent her mouth into a sardonic half-smile.
“Ah, you’re a sharp one, you are,” she said with exaggerated deference. She leaned in a few inches and almost jerked backward at the impact of his manly scent: sandalwood, starch, and a hint of something woodsy.
