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Recovering, she quipped, “What gave away my intentions? My bonnet, or was it my cloak?”
The words spilled from her lips before she was even aware. Aghast at her impudence and insolence, she caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth. She’d been unpardonably unkind to a man she suspected might have more hair than wit.
Good heavens.
What had come over her?
A slight frown wrinkling his forehead, the stranger took in her plain bonnet and slate gray cloak. The cloak truly ought to have been black to adhere to mourning protocol, but she wasn’t spending money on a new one.
Mercy bristled anew at his bold perusal.
Who was this man that he should be so presumptuous?
More on point and of greater concern was, why was she responding with such rancor?
“Where are you going?” he queried, that formerly constrained jollity in his gaze giving into full-blown merriment at her disapproving scowl.
Why, the bounder was baiting her. Poking the tiger.
“That, sir, is none of your business,” she said in her most professional governess’s tone. The one she rarely had to use to chastise Arabelle or Bellamy for a social infraction. She was somewhat out of practice at being stern and commanding.
He grinned then, a full-mouthed flash of pure masculinity.
Mother of God.
Was her jaw sagging?
Her eyes bugging from their sockets?
Because her pulse was doing something quite irregular, as were her lungs. The dratted organs appeared to have forgotten how to inhale and exhale without conscious thought on her part.
Although she’d been raised as a pious young woman, Mercy felt something wholly unholy spring to life in her middle.
“Oh, I believe it is very much my business, Miss Mercy Feathers.”
He knew her name.
That fact slashed through her unchaste musings, and her jaw went slack.
Oh, no, no, no.
Still with his foot wedged in the doorway, he swept his hat off, revealing rich brown hair much too luxurious and silky to be a man’s. He bent into a brief but elegant bow.
She knew who he was before his name passed his firm lips.
Lord Ronan Brockman.
“Lord Ronan Brockman at your service.”
A noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper escaped her parted lips.
She felt the hectic blush flaring across her face and racing up to singe the roots of her hair as his words registered.
Bother and rot.
It really is the most intriguing thing, Cathryn. My middle brother,
the world traveler, free-spirited roué, named a guardian. And mind you,
