James inhaled a deep bolstering breath before turning to face Mrs. Fox. He felt unprepared for battle, but she was the kind of woman he expected would strike when his defenses were low.
“Her ladyship asked for biscuits and a warm drink, and I wondered if you might wish for something from the kitchen.”
Whiskey was what he truly wanted, but he hadn’t seen a single drinks cart in the house.
“Is her ladyship coming down?” That’s what he wanted too. He’d only just kept himself from knocking on her bedroom door and breaching that last shred of propriety between them.
Rather than answer his question, Mrs. Fox, who stood on the sitting room threshold, glanced up the staircase.
An odd energy raised the hairs at his nape, and he didn’t need to see her to know that Lucy approached. Good grief, he was attuned to her mere presence now?
She swept into the room as if they’d planned a rendezvous, offering him a warm smile.
“I’ll have my drink down here if I’m not disturbing you.”
“Stay.” At the arch of one tawny brow, he realized the word had come out as something of a command. “I mean to say, you’re not disturbing me in the least.”
Every word of that was patently false, considering that the sight of her had turned that fizz of recognition to something much hungrier.
“I brought something to read.” She lifted a book almost proudly, a hefty tome with a gilded cover.
“Of course you did.” James grinned but reserved the chuckle that wanted to burst free since Mrs. Fox still stood watch in the doorway.
“Biscuits for you too, Lord Rossbury?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fox.” The housekeeper held his gaze in silent warning before glancing at Lucy and then back at him.
When she was gone, he bent closer and whispered, “Is that the one that nearly broke my foot?”
“If you mean the one that you unceremoniously dumped onto the train platform, no. That was a Dickens novel. This one fell too.” She tipped the book and examined its edges. “Though it seems no worse for the rough handling.”
She took a chair opposite the one he’d vacated, close to the fire. For a moment, he got lost in watching the firelight illumine all the strands of polished gold in her hair. Lucy either didn’t notice his perusal or was allowing it, and he hoped it was the latter.
“You don’t have a book,” she finally said quietly as she flipped a page.
“Oh, I do. I’ve simply gone cross-eyed from staring at the notations.” James lifted the ledger he’d been poring over for the last couple of hours.
“Any conclusions?” She kept her eyes fixed on her book, but he sensed she was as enthralled with its contents as he’d been with reading Invermere’s repairs ledger.
“Your aunt has been an excellent steward of this manor house.”
“She loves it a great deal.” Finally, she lifted her head and looked his way, but a frown knitted her brow. “I wonder why she didn’t arrive today.”
“The weather—”
“But it was clear this morning.”
“Perhaps the storm swept down from the north.”
“Mmm.” She put her book aside, and Jamesstraightened in his chair, thinking she meant to approach. Instead, she headed for the threshold where the door stood open.
Mary appeared a moment later bearing a tray laden with cups and biscuits and a pot of what he assumed was tea.
“I’ll take it, Mary.”
James started out of his seat to assist Lucy, but she strode toward the low table between the room’s settees and practically had his cup full before he could make a move. She was capable enough to make everything she did look effortless.
“It’s chamomile. Do you loathe chamomile?” She hesitated before offering him a brimming cup.
